by Ada Madison
My friend took one look at me and said, “Sweetie, what happened?”
Either Ariana had the special powers I’d always suspected, or I looked much worse than I felt. Visiting the heavenly-smelling shop was the best choice I could have made. I entered the world of beads and charms and faceted stones, none of which had done me wrong, and vice versa. I helped Ariana put away stray beads that customers looked at but didn’t return to their proper trays. I breathed in the calming aroma of incense as I opened cartons of new products and ran off flyers for upcoming demonstrations and classes, including one on handwriting analysis. I wondered if she’d planned to teach it herself or bring in an expert. I supposed there were such people.
After I sprayed all the counters and wiped them down, I dragged the vacuum cleaner from behind the heavy beaded curtain that hid the kitchen and workshop area.
“You don’t have to do that,” Ariana said.
“Yes, I do.”
I pushed and pulled a very old Hoover, feeling the tension transfer from my arms and legs to the long handle of the vacuum cleaner. Now and then I heard a disturbing click that was a bead on its way into the dust bag, but I knew from other closing time visits that a certain loss of inventory by this route was normal. When I was finished, the mauve area rug in the middle of the store bore satisfying tracks from the Hoover’s wheels. I wound the cord around the back of the vacuum and tucked it in at the top.
I swapped the vacuum cleaner for a soft, damp mop and attacked the slick linoleum that covered the rest of the sales floor and extended to the back room.
All flooring in A Hill of Beads was now spic and span. A job well done. Almost as pleasing as ironing.
“What else needs cleaning?” I asked.
It was great to be in control of something, if only housework.
When I’d spent enough physical energy to feel relaxed, we retreated to the back of the store. A tea and conversation corner was a must with Ariana and I was very comfortable here in my favorite overstuffed chair.
Ariana assumed a yoga position, pulled a beading case onto her lap, and went to work. Not work for her, I knew, but a pacifying activity. She knew enough not to foist anything on me, however. Beading was still a distant second to puzzling as far as being a stress-free activity for me. Ariana claimed it was because I took too mathematical an approach to the craft. What was wrong with that?
“Lose the symmetry,” Ariana had told me by way of advice after an early class. She’d laid out one of my newly crafted bracelets. “Look at this,” she’d clucked. “One large blue, three small white, three tiny gold; one large blue, three small white, three tiny gold. All the way around. It’s like an equation.”
“Your point?” I’d asked.
I knew what Ariana meant, but I had no confidence in anything other than a strictly ordered pattern.
Add to that, I felt I’d never be really good at beading, no matter how much my friend encouraged and coached me. As small-boned as I was, my fingers seemed to be as big as those of a college wrestling champion when I tried to fold back the end of a fine-gauge wire and insert it into a tiny bead.
Eventually I’d master the art of tucking wires into small places and attaching fasteners in an unobtrusive way, but my talent for design was sadly lacking. My beaded necklaces looked like something from the nearest day care center, produced by a kid who knew his colors and was just learning to count.
Ariana had been commissioned to make jewelry for an entire wedding party—necklaces, earrings, and bracelets for the bride, maid of honor, four bridesmaids, and a flower girl.
“I finally convinced them not to have matching sets,” she told me, working magic fingers with a magnificent set of colors. She’d assembled pale turquoise, coral, onyx, pearls, and clear crystal beads. “It’s kind of a flapper theme the bride has going, so we’re doing a choker and a long strand of button pearls for her, two strands of pearls each for the attendants, and drop earrings for all, I think. I haven’t decided on what the flower girl should have. Maybe just a bracelet with a single pearl choker.
I was mesmerized as my friend took beads that didn’t look to me that they went together at all and wove them into a design where they seemed to have been made for each other.
“Why did the dean want the boxes so badly?” I asked Ariana, out of the blue.
“She’s looking for something that might make her look bad.”
“Or a proposal she doesn’t want seeing the light of day.”
“Or she killed your Dr. Appleton,” Ariana said, jabbing a tiny wire into the opening of a coral bead.
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. I don’t think she has it in her. And she doesn’t know a thing about poisons. Or any science, or any scientist, living or dead. She’d have stabbed him or shot him.”
“Nice,” Ariana said.
“Maybe she was just peeved at me on principle. She’d wanted someone else, I still don’t know who, to pick up the boxes and I barged in and took them. That would be enough to upset her world.”
Ariana closed up her beading box and took a three-ring binder from the small table next to her.
“I should look at her handwriting,” she said, cruising through pages in the binder.
“Still on that kick?”
“I’m going to get certified to teach a class in the fall.”
“I saw the flyer.”
“Don’t sound so skeptical.”
“Me?” I asked, all innocent.
“Do you have any samples of the dean’s handwriting?”
“Probably somewhere.”
“I could look at them.”
She held up the binder and fanned the pages at me, but I couldn’t read the writing by the dim light of the blue and green lava lamp. “These are my notes. I’ve already picked up more tips from this lecture I heard last week. Did you know you can tell a lot about a person even from the pressure of the pen on the paper?”
“What if you’re using a pen that doesn’t write dark, or is running out of ink?”
Ariana ignored me as she usually did when I brought a rational explanation into a conversation.
“A slant to the right means emotionally outgoing and to the left means you’re restrained.”
“What if the person is left-handed? Bruce is a lefty and his writing is slanted way to the left. I wouldn’t call him restrained. Would you?”
“If the person writes very small it means a great ability to concentrate on small details.”
I’d long admired my friend’s ability to slide right past a question or a comment and continue with her own agenda. I couldn’t do it. Maybe it was an occupational hazard from my years of working with proofs and logic, where the requirement was to have each statement follow from the one before, without skipping a single step, even a simple one.
“Do tell,” I said. She would anyway.
“You should see a sample of Albert Einstein’s handwriting. It’s tiny, tiny, but very, very accurate as far as the shape of the letters. Charles Darwin’s, on the other hand, is all over the place, with a very wavy baseline and wide spacing between the words.”
I couldn’t resist. “Well, Einstein could have had a limited amount of paper and Darwin might have been on the ocean on his ‘Beagle’ when he was writing.”
“You’re no fun.”
“I hope you don’t still have the letters I wrote to you while we were in college,” I said.
My friend gave me a wicked smile. “I marked them up with a red pencil. I put notes in the margin—”
Ariana might as well have hit me with her red binder. Why did it take me this long to see it?
“That’s it!”
I slammed the palms of my hand together, creating one loud clap. “That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out. It’s been bothering me forever, but I didn’t know why. Now I do: if they were really Rachel’s yellow pages that were strewn around the crime scene, they wouldn’t have red pencil marks.”
“Should I be following thi
s?” Ariana asked.
“Keith never looked at students’ yellow sheets. All the girls have told me that. He simply would not read drafts. They were beneath him. So there was no way Rachel would have given him a copy on the yellow paper, therefore, no way he would have read it, and therefore, no way he would have marked it up in red.” I opened my palms to signal how clearly each step followed from the one before. The conclusion wasn’t quite up to snuff mathematically, but it was obvious to me. “The yellow pages were marked up and planted by the killer.”
“This is good, right?”
I hugged my friend. “This is very, very good. I need to call the cops.”
Ariana was elated that she’d given me the key to deciphering a major piece of evidence at the Franklin Hall crime scene. She cleared her desk for me—no small task since neither neatness nor doing paperwork received a lot of her attention on a regular basis. She put piles of folders on top of other piles of folders and left me alone with my cell, a pad of paper, and a pen. I intended to take my handwritten notes immediately out of her presence as soon as I was finished.
I mentally rolled up the imaginary sleeves of my sleeveless knit top. Not a problem; I’d taught a whole course in imaginary numbers last year.
I called Virgil. He, and not Archie, answered on the second ring. So far, so good.
“I don’t want to disturb you if you’re still talking to Rachel,” I said.
Virgil chuckled. “Your friend is doing fine. We just needed to get a few more things straight.”
“She’s still there?” I wondered if anyone but a lawyer or blood relative was entitled to that information.
“She’ll be here for a while.”
“Like, all night?” I heard my voice rise and my language lapse into studentese.
“Hard to say.”
“Did you pick up—?”
“Invite in for questioning, you mean?”
“Did you invite the other three girls I mentioned, too?”
“Not yet.”
“Did you arrest Rachel?”
“Not yet.”
I gulped, unable to ask about Woody. Surely there was an age limit for this kind of thing. “Do you have new evidence?” I asked, holding my breath.
“Other than Ms. Wheeler’s and three other students of yours lying to the police? No.”
“This is my fault,” I said, not meaning to.
“They’re the ones who lied to us, Sophie. That’s the crime. You did your part, encouraging them to come forward. And then coming in yourself was a nice, cooperative gesture.”
“So I couldn’t have been charged if I hadn’t come in?”
“Nope. More’s the pity. Anything you heard from Rachel or the other girls was essentially hearsay. You had no way of knowing if they were telling you the truth. It’s not as if you witnessed a crime.”
“Archie led me to believe—”
“That’s Archie. And, for better or worse, police are allowed to lie to suspects or persons of interest or . . . just about anyone as long as they’re not under oath.”
It didn’t seem fair.
“Well, I have something that I think will convince you that Rachel is innocent.”
“That’s exciting. You’ve got my attention.”
I didn’t want to disappoint him. “It’s not a hair or a fiber or anything.”
“You’d be surprised how seldom a hair or a fiber cracks the case.”
“Not like what we see on CSI?”
A loud guffaw. “Like where you take a piece of carpet thread from a body and a few minutes later you have the name of the only manufacturer who makes that particular color rug and they give you a list of the four stores in New England that they sell it to, which you then put into your computer and presto a mug shot pops up?”
I’d clearly hit a sore spot. “Yeah, like that. Not the way it is, huh?” My goal now was to strike sympathetic notes no matter what Virgil said.
“Remember I served ten years in Boston, so I’ve seen my share of homicide crime scenes. Let me tell you, it’s sheer brute force ninety-nine percent of the time. Interviewing, walking around meeting people who knew the deceased, talking to everyone in as much of an area as you can cover. A lot of times it’s what’s not at the crime scene that will solve your case for you.”
“Hard work will do it every time,” I said.
“And even if you have something as simple as fingerprints, do you know how long it takes to get that processed? Forever. There’s no money, no staff. And DNA? Don’t get me started.”
Too late. “Most people don’t understand how underfunded and overworked our police departments are.”
“You got that right. So what’s this theory you have?”
My turn at last. I laid out my logic to Virgil, explaining the Rules of the Yellow Sheets, according to the scientist residents of Franklin Hall. Then I summed it all up.
“Ergo, the killer wrote the nasty comments and sprinkled the pages around, so there’d be one more thing that pointed to Rachel.”
A long pause followed. I pictured Virgil, in all his bulk, scratching his head above his widow’s peak, thinking, not about to commit without a lot of thought.
I blinked first. “What do you think, Virgil?”
“Worth looking at.”
Yes! “Can I look at the sheets of paper?” Might as well keep on this roll.
“You can look at the photos of the sheets of paper.”
Good enough. “When?”
“Tell you what. Let us take a look on this end.” I wanted to rush in and offer Ariana Volens, my own handwriting expert, but I resisted. “Maybe I’ll swing by tonight and see my man Bruce, too, if you think he’ll be there.”
I was elated. “Bruce will be at my house. He’s sort of camping there until all this is sorted out.”
“It’s a good thing, because you certainly can’t count on the Henley PD to keep you safe.”
I hoped that was a chuckle I heard in Virgil’s voice.
I knew it was premature, but I couldn’t help rejoicing. All we—I was back, aligned with the police—had to do was determine whose handwriting was on the pages of Rachel’s thesis, probably rescued from the trash, and we’d have the identity of the killer.
Giddiness set in.
I briefed Ariana on Virgil’s response and thanked her over and over for jarring my brain into gear. I felt bad that I had to quash her idea that she come along to look at the handwriting and do her own analysis. I didn’t want to overwhelm Virgil. I promised I’d scan the photos and take copies to her if Virgil permitted.
I left a message on Bruce’s cell, which he wouldn’t have left on if he were sleeping, that we were having company this evening and that he should restock the fridge.
To add to my well-deserved state of euphoria, when I clicked on the “missed message” notice on my cell, I found that there’d been a call from Lucy. I was almost afraid to call her back, lest I break the spell. Following quickly on that thought was the brainstorm that I should find a way to get her to write a sentence for me.
CHAPTER 20
Bruce called me when I was about ten minutes away from home, caught in traffic from the late end of rush hour.
“I had my cell off,” he explained. “I needed to sleep if I’m going to take the late security shift here tonight. I hope there’s overtime pay in your budget.”
Cute. “Where are you?”
“Supermarket. Any special requests?”
“A couple of six-packs.” Bruce laughed, knowing my average consumption was one beer a year at the Franklin Hall summer picnic. “I’m serious,” I said.
“Virge is coming over?”
Smart guy. I replayed the last hours of my day for him, emphasizing the pluses. “Pick up some snacks, too,” I said. “And one of those cook-it-at-home pizzas. With pepperoni. And olives. Lots of both. Thanks.”
“Buttering up, are we?”
“To the nth,” I said. “Did you leave through my garage?”
“Just wondering if the boxes were back.”
Another great laugh. “See you soon.”
Halfway through his first slice of extra pepperoni, extra olives pizza, Virgil asked, “I hope you don’t mind if we eat first, then get to the other matter. No lunch today. And breakfast wasn’t so hot. Only four doughnuts.” Bruce and I raised our eyebrows. “Kidding.”
“Take your time,” I said. “Have some more chips.” As long as the “other matter” was on the agenda for the evening, I was fine.
Bruce led the dinner conversation. A good thing, since despite my declaration otherwise, I was too distracted to think about anything but the crime scene photos. I glanced at Virgil’s briefcase periodically, tempted to whisk it away to the den while the boys ate and talked.
First up from Bruce was asking about Virgil’s family. Virgil had lost his wife to cancer a few years ago; his son was in summer school at a Southern California college where he’d start freshman year in the fall. It occurred to me that pizza was not necessarily a treat for a bachelor and I should have cooked him a meal.
Bruce and I exclaimed how great Ronnie looked in his high school graduation picture, and again holding his basketball trophy, and again with his date for his senior prom. The photos were for my benefit since Bruce and Virgil met every other week for card games with other guys in their clique—though maybe family pictures never came up during those sessions.
“What’s new up in the air these days?” Virgil asked Bruce.
“Up In The Air. Good one,” Bruce said, an acknowledgment that Virgil knew the title of one his favorite recent movies.
“I’m not as out of it as you think,” Virgil said. He performed a neat trick with a long string of cheese that wouldn’t detach from the slice. Using his chin deftly, he didn’t miss a calorie.
“We’ve got competition,” Bruce said. I’d heard the story: a new air rescue business had set up shop across the road from MAstar. “It’s a for-profit company where one of the VPs is a Henley councilman.”
