Game, Set, Murder

by Judith Mehl

  He strode up the bleacher steps with several students in tow, settled his sunglasses onto his face with relief, and made a few pointers before leaving his students mentally on their own. Terry, the university star from last season sat on his right, and asked a question now and then as he watched the southpaw Andreas Stephanos from Greece attack his opponent. The questions were astute, but Nettle didn’t appreciate being pulled from his reverie each time. He plotted how to confront Kat in a secluded place. His pounding eyeballs kept interfering with the details. Eventually he set his scheming aside and let the sun and the breeze soothe him. He could only pray there would be time to finalize his game plan before Kat turned on him.

  Terry must have finally realized the answers were abrupt. He turned away miffed that the answers were less than satisfying. In a temporary stop nearby, Kat eyed Terry’s puzzled countenance while studying the coach. She wondered what had gotten into the man to ignore his students like that.

  The match was too intriguing to let the puzzle disturb her for long. Maybe the coach was just having a bad day. Jacob, another student nearby appeared less concerned, splitting his time between admiring female fans three rows down, and the haphazard play on the court. Form frayed in the heat. Winning points were often based on errant shots from the loser rather than triumphant zingers from the victorious. But the play struck a notch higher than the university matches, and all were enthralled.

  Stephanos topped the match with his fancy footwork and his lefty moves. The man was all lean muscle and bronzed skin, but it was his deftness, his jack-rabbit starts, and his swift returns that called the game. He finished off the unknown opponent with ease. Terry, a left-hander himself, looked impressed and rushed afterwards to meet him in the reserved area. As a volunteer, he had spent some time working the games and had already met Stephanos.

  Kat marveled at the idol’s charming ways. Though the man’s English was stilted, it topped Terry’s hero, the Greek, and the competitor had been friendly and helpful with his advice.

  He took time again now, following his shower, to convene court in the celebrity lounge, to dissect tennis, and offer pointers. The Greek reminded Terry that the U.S. Professional Tennis Association offers valuable tips on all levels of playing.

  “You’re serious. You read their tips? You’re not even American.”

  “My nationality is tennis. Wherever it leads me. I take advice. Is free,” Stephanos emphasized as he took a draining swallow of his soft drink. He only imbibed in alcohol at the end of the evening, in small quantities and secluded company. Stephanos planned a swift ride to fame, and honed good public relations skills.

  “Here’s one I learned. It helped me lots: when a tennis player exhales at contact point, you know, when the racquet hits the ball on serve, the serve travels about eight kilometers an hour faster.”

  Terry nodded, accessing the information. “What is that? About 12 miles? Wow! I’ve got to try that!”

  “Beware. Shouting loudly when you do that, or, what do you say? Squeaking? Is now a no-no.”

  Stephanos added other counsel. “Warm up slowly and smoothly, always smoothly, before play.” he waved his arms around like a ballerina. “Don’t what do you say? Smash it around?”

  “Here’s one more. Then I go play,” Stephanos laughed, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

  Terry knew the man wasn’t talking tennis, but refrained from asking. He listened closely to the final advice.

  “You know the strike zone—that place in front of your body.” He motioned to the area between mid-thigh and the middle of the trunk? Terry nodded again. At least he was aware of the strike zone.

  “You have opportunity to generate the most power and maintain the most balance if you swing with a smooth rhythm from the strike zone!” Stephanos punctuated his point by smacking down his empty glass and rising from his chair, far from smoothly.

  Terry pumped his hand in gratitude, awed by the man’s willingness to help. As he rose to follow, deep in thought, he jostled papers off a nearby table. He bent to collect them, and returned them to Kat, who was sitting with Maddy, studying more samples of handwriting. They too were deep in thought, evaluating conflicting clues, knowing that someone’s future was at stake.

  Detective Burrows, hands on hips, stepped into view, startling Kat, but definitely alarming Terry, who had overheard enough to realize they were discussing the murder. With the detective’s arrival he scurried off without hearing the rest.

  Burrows smiled and pulled out the remaining chair.

  “You’re not easy to track down.”

  “I didn’t know you were looking. I tried to reach you earlier but the officer that answered said you were tied up.”

  “So, now I’m not. What do you want?” He explored their handwriting samples, looking for an answer.

  She explained what they were doing, and also admitted they’d reach no conclusions. She added, “I called hoping you could tell me more about Paul Ruggiero and that swift maneuver at the cemetery.”

  Burrows smiled and absentmindedly eyed the various food booths nearby, trying to decipher their menus without rising. “Yeah, they handled that well. But in reality, Ruggiero wasn’t trying to hide from anyone. He’d just rolled into town for the funeral and hadn’t received my messages yet.”

  Kat perked up, even offered to buy the detective the gyro he was ogling. He took a peek at his overreaching belly and shook his head no, quite reluctantly, but firmly. When he didn’t say any more, she pushed.

  “So, what did he say? Did you arrest him?”

  “For what? Having the bad sense to go into business with the likes of Ed Ambrose? I suppose you could say that was criminal, but hardly a trying offense.”

  Maddy dusted off her French accent and plied the detective with her charm. “Why Detective Burrows, I’m sure with your polished interrogation techniques the man was ready to confess to almost anything.”

  Burrows, familiar with Maddy’s wiles, felt the heat nonetheless. Still, he saw no harm in informing them of Ruggiero’s whereabouts. He also filled them in on the latest figures for the defunct tennis center, the yawning carcass a testimony to Ambrose’s poor planning and Ruggiiero’s lack of vigilance.

  Kat swallowed disappointment and recovered to ask a few questions. She had set her hopes that Ruggiero had the means, and certainly a motive. Burrows’ conviction that he was innocent wasn’t enough for her. She pondered how she could best confront the businessman but didn’t mention her plans to the detective.

  Three teenage skateboarders zipped past against all the rules, and almost broke their necks as they passed the detective, who happened to be in full uniform. They stumbled off their skateboards so quickly the scruffiest of them went flying into the hedges before he could stop. The one with luminescent green hair jerked him out of the bushes before he could be arrested for destruction of property. The youngest, with his nose ring to match his eyebrow rings, fled the area as if he didn’t know either of them, skateboard under his arm.

  Burrows, Maddy, and Kat squelched chuckles until the three were out of sight, then enjoyed an open belly laugh. If all of life were only so simple, Kat thought.

  They reviewed with Burrows their concerns over some of the acquired handwriting samples, but anything they’d found, he waived away.

  “Anyone looking questionable had an alibi.”

  Maddy showed him Alejandro Aguilar’s complex paragraph, only partially in English, but very clear in its emotionalism. She said, “He has this special ‘I,’ very leftward in an otherwise right-slanted writing. Kat says it denotes feelings of guilt, great repression, like he wants to hide something from the world.”

  Burrows tensed. “That may be. For all you know he may have a wife in every country, but he has an iron-clad alibi for the night of the murder. Keep out of his personal business!”

  David Nettle happened by, unable to hear the detective’s words but his anger permeated the air. Nettle came down from the stands between matches, specifica
lly looking for Kat. His protégés had deserted him for the current batch of tennis greats and he was hoping to resolve his own problems while they were preoccupied. Accosting Kat with the police around didn’t interest him. Far from it. His bad luck was obviously holding. He kept walking, angry and affronted that Kat was never alone.

  Shortly after, Burrows rose to leave, and admonished the women to let him handle the murder investigation. “Stepping into people’s lives right now could bring trouble unrelated to the murder,” he warned.

  Unaware that she’d narrowly avoided a confrontation with Nettle, Kat seethed at Burrows passing shot. So what if he was right? How else were they to end the fear on campus, the short tempers, the wary looks as students and faculty quickly strode past each other, furtively looking around to secure their safety from an unknown foe. Burrows might be working hard to solve the murder, but he didn’t have to live with the vibrations of fear that she and Maddy did each day.

  Those at the tournament were the exception. Some came for the escape, but their fears returned in the university hallways. None walked near the woods alone. Campus security doubled patrols and extended hours. Their visible presence should have provided confidence and a sense of protection; instead it was a constant reminder of an unknown killer on the loose.

  Maddy and Kat struggled onward, happy once in a while to see writing that exhibited only good will and openness. They admired the latest sample, where the signature and text were so similar that it could only be a sign of a genuine, up-front person, with a sincere and honest personality.

  Kat didn’t recognize the name and asked Maddy the identification of the wonderful player. Maddy turned a little sheepish and said, “Well, it was the ball boy—that cute one with the curly black hair that always wants to serve as ball boy for the Greek. He wanted to give samples like the other guys. I didn’t see any harm in it.”

  Kat restrained her laughter, just. Typical Maddy. Anything in pants could entice her.

  Their heads bent back together in concentration. Now they studied Lauri’s handwriting and Kat pointed out the irregular spacing between words.

  “That shows an emotional instability. If her behavior is like her writing, she is unpredictable from one moment to the next.”

  Shuffling through several other small stationary sheets, Maddy also noted, “She has short straight strokes. Didn’t you say that can be a sign of tension and resentment?”

  “Lead-in strokes need to be identified, through beginning location, structure, and amount of pressure. After that we could determine if she follows the rules and if she holds resentment.”

  Kat viewed the knotted ovals and said, “In these pages she’s always on the defensive, on guard against criticism, sees herself as a victim.” She settled back, satisfied at her interpretation.

  “Sure is enough reason to suspect her of killing Ambrose. Maybe she tired of being the victim.”

  “Well, we know she was being played for the fool, feministically speaking.”

  Kat glanced through the pages again. “Seems like we need to investigate those rumors about her money too—see if she donated as much to Ambrose’s cause as gossip reports.”

  She flipped to the last page. “These strokes also show she is threatened by change, and if someone tries to force it on her, she will attempt to thwart them.”

  Maddy decided it was time to pull in the reins. “Kat, you have to realize that this letter was written accusing another faculty member of misconduct. Much of what we’ve related to Ambrose and his treatment of Lauri, could easily be interpreted another way—possibly the more honest way.”

  “I know. You mean that she was the victim of this other woman’s accusations and that it is all intertwined in the typical faculty back-stabbing rather than death.”

  Maddy raised her shoulders suggestively. “Well, you said it, rather succinctly, but close to true.”

  Kat finished her cold fries absentmindedly. “So what do you propose?”

  Maddy sighed. “Maybe we could let Burrows do his job?”

  Kat scowled and changed the subject. “Meanwhile, let’s review some of these others. Maybe someone’s maniac ‘d’ will lead us directly to the killer.”

  G. L. CAUGHT UP with Kat in her office. He seldom visited, so Kat panicked. Once he’d assured her that Nick was fine, she relaxed and offered him a chair. Comfortable in her presence, he settled and stretched his legs. He went directly to the results of his research.

  “I checked into Lauri Carmichael’s money, you know, from the sale of her property.” Kat leaned forward eagerly, forgetting the myriad jobs aligned on her desk. “And?”

  “And she ‘loaned’ every last dime to Ambrose for the tennis center. Since my search wasn’t legit I couldn’t tell for sure, but it looks like Ambrose never got around to doing any paperwork that would give Lauri a percentage of the company in exchange.”

  “So we have motive.”

  “The police sure do. My bet is they’re way ahead of you. Maybe it’s time to let them finish up their work?” It wasn’t the words so much as his raised eyebrows that Kat took as warning.

  Chapter 16

  Tiny extra loops inside oval letters can simply imply sensitivity to something or innocent deception, but may reveal secrets and lies.

  “Handwriting Analysis” by P. Scott Hollander

  Kat rushed in the Apothecary door, almost walking backwards as she stared at the man hustling down the street. Was that the mystery man? Was that a furtive walk? Or just his way of “saving his mother’s back” as he avoided the cracks?

  Her friend, naturally open, had yet to introduce herself to the man and find out what he was doing. Apparently he’d entered the store several times, and just stared blankly at the rows of herbal products. On occasion, Glinna caught him frowning in her direction.

  Now, as Kat steered her way to the back office, she glimpsed Glinna’s puffed up face. “Oh my God! What did he do to you? I’ll call the police!” Glinna grabbed the phone from her hand and attempted to shake her head “No,” when her mumbled words weren’t clear enough to halt her friend. She stopped in mid shake, however, as the pain shot through her face.

  “But Glinna, what happened?”

  Her friend spoke slowly, attempting distinction despite the swelling on the left side of her face. “Nothing happened. I had a rood canal. Somefing went wrong. I got uhm infection.”

  “My God! I’m so sorry, but I almost went out and tackled the guy! What was he doing in here?”

  “Same fing as always. Staring,” Glinna mumbled. “I was hiding in the office until he left. I was so afraid he’d finally wand to buy somefing and I’d have to show my face!”

  “Don’t you think it’s time you confronted the man and just ask what he wants?”

  “Not now. I’m in pain. Hound me later when I can fighd back. As soon as my assisdant, Heather, gets here I’m heading home.”

  “Fair enough. I came in to buy the nettle leaves and oatstraw for the diuretic I mix up for old Annie.” Glinna knew Annie was the elderly neighbor down the road from Kat’s house. She also knew that Kat played safe and had the woman check with her doctor to confirm it was okay to use the tea. Kat regularly concocted the mixture for Annie as a gesture of kindness. Herbal tea provided an excuse to stop in for a few minutes to see how she was each week. The woman’s son, who only lived an hour a way, rarely came by. But Annie spoke lovingly of him, and pointed out his picture more than once on the mantle. Kat saw a man who’d aged prematurely, sporting a pot belly. His homely bulldog of a face, highlighted by mutton chop sideburns blended into a weak beard, while his hairline lacked punctuation. Kat didn’t count much on his exhibiting loving concern for his mother. She’d listen patiently to the mother’s blind love, and brought her gifts and healing herbs when she could.

  As Kat wandered the aisles looking for her supplies, she recalled how Glinna had recounted numerous tales of folklore, from the Germanic peoples’ sacred linden tree and its many uses, to the poiso
nous honey cakes of Greek fame.

  “Oh my gosh! Glinna!” Kat dropped the container of oatstraw in her haste to return to the herbalist’s office. The lid had fortunately stayed in place and she jiggled the tin back on the shelf one-handed before running down the aisle.

  “Glinna, Glinna, I need to hear your honey cake tale again.”

  The store owner lifted her head from where it was cupped in her hands at the desk. “Whaa?”

  Kat slid to a stop inside the door, grateful there were no other customers to see her lack of decorum. “You know, the story about the poisoned honey cakes!”

  “You mean, where the Greeks discovered that honey from bees fed on mountain or sheep laurel poisoned the enemy?”

  When Kat nodded at her she recanted the tale. Glinna had told her the story of the bees once before and Kat deciphered her slurred words easily. As Glinna repeated it Kat pondered the possible significance.

  “Right, I thought you’d said laurel. Why is that?”

  “All parts of mountain laurel and sheep laurel are poisonous and contain carbohydrate andromedotoxin.”

  Kat gave up trying to determine her spelling of the word and asked Glinna to write down the term. She could research it in her books when she got home—in case they contained more details. It was amazing how many common plants and herbs were poisonous if used the wrong way or in the wrong quantity.

  They discussed how deadly it was, what the symptoms might be and how easily it might be to produce honey cakes. Glinna reached gracefully from her chair for one of her many herb books and started paging through. Kat realized she was codling her jaw and remembered the root canal.

  “I’m so sorry Glinna. I forgot how you must be feeling. I know a student who could manage the store for a few hours so you can go home.”

  Glinna barely heard her. “No, no, I think it’s wight here. Watch for Heather and tell her to stock the chamomile, peppermint, and lemon teas when she comes in.”