Thirteen Authors With New Takes on Sherlock Holmes

by Michael A. Ventrella

  • • •

  Since it was late December, we were between semesters, so I had shit-all to do on a Monday night anyhow. I’d been thinking of going to see a movie—Mondays and Tuesdays are the best nights to see a movie in the theater; the place is almost totally empty—but a free crib in exchange for listening to some kid? I’ll take that interview.

  When Martha said townhouse on Riverside, she wasn’t kidding. It was a beautiful five-story place on the corner of 107th that had to go back to the early twentieth century. It was all red brick and white stone, with fancy wrought-iron patterns on the front door.

  I rang the bell. About a second later, a voice said, “Who is it?” over the speaker.

  Now that was impressive all by itself because intercoms like that in New York usually just gave you a burst of static. This one, though, was crystal clear. “It’s Jack Watson.”

  There was a pause, and then: “I don’t know anyone by that name, though it’s a very common name, and I suppose I might have met one at some point. Obviously if I did, they were spectacularly boring.”

  Okay, maybe listening to this kid was going to be more of a challenge. “Uhm, I’m here about the, ah, companion job.”

  “Oh, you’re the person my aunt met at the hospital?”

  “Yes.”

  The door made a light buzzing noise, and I pulled it open.

  To call this place huge undersold it. High ceilings, fancy furniture, and the foyer I walked into had a massive staircase on the right, and led to an even bigger room. And there was wood everywhere—hardwood floor, wooden banisters on the wooden staircase, wood paneling on the walls, a wooden coat rack near the front door.

  The young woman who walked in from the far room was small and slight, with just enough curves to make you realize she was female. She was well fed, though—three years in Afghanistan taught me the difference between people who were skinny because that was how they were built and people who were skinny because they didn’t eat. She had brown hair that she kept short, and I thought she had brown eyes—she wasn’t looking at me. Her skin was the coffee color you see on some mixed-race folks. But even with that mocha flesh tone, she was pretty much the dictionary definition of nondescript. I also couldn’t tell how old she was at all—if you’d told me she was twelve or twenty-eight or anything in between, I’d believe you.

  “Please place your coat on the coat rack and then come with me,” she said.

  After I did that, she asked, “How long did you serve as a medic in Afghanistan?” as she led me into the next room.

  “Your aunt tell you that?”

  “No, she just said that she met you at the hospital, but that means you’re obviously a medical professional of some sort, and you carry yourself in the manner of someone who served in the military, specifically in combat situations, to wit, the way you continually check your surroundings. When you shrugged out of your coat, it was as if you were expecting there to be a backpack and your hands moved toward your head as if to remove a helmet. Plus, there is a particular cast to your eyes that I have observed only in those who have been involved in armed conflict—some would call it haunted, if they preferred to be vulgar. So, therefore, your service was recent and involved combat—but your fingers have none of the calluses associated with use of firearms and since you are involved in medicine, it stood to reason that you served as a me—”

  “Okay, I’m impressed.” By this time we’d gone through what I figured was a sitting room and then a dining room. “But how’d you know it was Afghanistan? I could’ve served in Iraq.”

  She turned around and stared at me, and I stopped dead in my tracks. I got my first good look at her brown eyes, and her stare was intense.

  “Your fingers have none of the calluses associated with use of firearms and since you are involved in medicine, it stood to reason that you served as a medic. Now then, enough of my stating the blindingly obvious. Please answer the question: how long did you serve as a medic in Afghanistan?” She took a seat at the head of the table.

  I just stared at her for a second, but she was back to looking away, which, I got to tell you, was a huge relief. After another second I sat at the seat perpendicular to her and said, “Three years.”

  “My aunt seems to think that you could replace her as my companion. What Aunt Martha fails to understand is that I do not require a companion. I am, of course, grateful to her for assisting me all these years while my parents have traveled, but I am no longer of an age where I require a guardian or someone to speak to. In fact, I would much rather not have someone.” She frowned. “Under what circumstances did you meet my aunt?”

  “I was filling in for Dr. Antropov to supervise her chemo.”

  “Which means you’re a fourth-year medical student, since Aunt Martha would have identified you as a doctor, and you would likely have introduced yourself as ‘Dr. Jack Watson,’ and supervising a standard procedure is typical of the duties given to internists such as yourself. This means that you are working long hours at the hospital in addition to your studies, which means that you will not have the time to irritate me.” She nodded. “Excellent. I accept your application, Mr. Watson.”

  “You just said I wouldn’t have time to—to irritate you.” Honestly, that had been my biggest worry about this whole thing from jump: I didn’t have all that much spare time.

  “Which suits us both. You do not need to be encumbered by the additional duties my aunt thinks are required, but the act of having you here will placate her and create the illusion that I am being taken care of. Do you accept?”

  I just kind of sat there with my mouth hanging open. Pretty much from the minute this kid opened her mouth, I figured the job was a lost cause. I didn’t think I could listen to her for more than five minutes without wanting to strangle her.

  But getting a free room in this house and not having to put up with her bullshit? “I’ll gladly accept, Ms. Hudson.”

  She frowned again. “Don’t be stupid, my name isn’t Ms. Hudson. Aunt Martha is my mother’s sister, and she committed the barbaric act of changing her name to that of her husband when she married, and kept it following his death. That practice derives from an era when women were considered to be the property of their spouses and so subsumed their birth names for that of the husband. That is no longer the case, so I do not comprehend why women continue to engage in the idiotic practice. In any event, I would properly be identified as ‘Ms. Holmes,’ which is my father’s last name—and my mother’s, actually, as she also underwent the barbaric practice. However, you may address me by my first name of Shirley.”

  “And you can call me Jack.”

  “Is that how you are referred to by friends and colleagues?”

  I started to say that my Army buddies all called me Doc, because that’s what you usually call the medic, but I really didn’t want little Shirley Holmes calling me that, and she was literal enough that she might. So I just said, “Yeah.”

  “That was a lie. You hesitated before answering. Nonetheless, I will abide by the terms you set out and refer to you as Jack. You may bring your belongings whenever you wish. Aunt Martha lives on the second floor, I am on the third, and my parents—on those rare occasions when they darken this townhouse’s doorstep—are on the fourth. You will have the top level where my brother once lived before he moved out. I am afraid it will require a considerable amount of stair climbing, but you seem to be a fit specimen.”

  I chuckled. “The place I’m about to move out of is a fifth-floor walkup, so I’m good. I’ll move in tomorrow.”

  • • •

  The first few weeks living at the Holmes townhouse were interesting. I had my own bathroom, with a claw-foot tub, and even a kitchenette, plus a bedroom that was bigger than any apartment I’d ever lived in, never mind the shitholes where I hung my helmet in the desert.

  I didn’t see that much of Shirley. She spent all her time researching. I checked in on her a few times after I moved in, just to keep appearances up,
for Martha’s sake. In her room on the second floor, she had four computers on her desk: a purple iMac from the turn of the century, a Dell laptop from about 2004, a MacBook Air, and an Acer laptop that looked more recent. Plus, I saw a big pile of smartphones on the desk, starting with a Treo, a BlackBerry, and the first-ever iPhone model and going all the way up to the latest models, and Apple, Droid, and Windows phones. One of the desktops was playing music (sounded like something classical), another had some kind of graphics program, another had an Excel spreadsheet, and the Air was running a word-processing program.

  First thing she said was, “What is it you want, Jack?”

  “Just checking in to make sure you’re okay.”

  “Of course I am okay. In addition to the placation of my aunt, your presence serves as a useful and immediate aid should I not be okay, as you are a semester away from being a fully trained physician and are located only two flights above me. However, I have not summoned you, which is an indication that I am, in fact, okay. You may rest assured that you will be informed if that situation changes.”

  All righty, then.

  When she wasn’t home, she was going off to some library or other.

  Once the semester started, we didn’t see each other hardly at all. Which was fine. I saw more of Martha, honestly, and we spent a lot of time making fun of “Dmitri.” She told me she wished I was her regular doctor.

  One Friday night I came back from the hospital to see a tall Indian woman standing outside the front door. She was staring at the wrought-iron pattern.

  “Can I help you?” I walked up to the door next to her.

  “Do you live here?” She spoke with an accent that sounded a little British.

  “I do, yeah.”

  “Oh. Is this Shirley Holmes’s place?”

  “Uh, yeah, it is. I, ah, rent out the top floor. You here to see her?”

  “I think so.”

  That was a weird answer. “You a friend of hers?”

  “Oh, no! That is to say, we’ve taken a class together, and she’s brilliant, but…”

  After she trailed off, the uncomfortable silence went on way too long, so I said, “You wanna come in?”

  “I suppose so, yes.” She gave me a big smile. “Thank you, I’m so sorry for being ridiculous.”

  “It’s fine.” I pulled my keys out of my slacks and opened the door. “By the way, I’m Jack.”

  “My name is Kirti. Thank you so much for your help.”

  Martha was coming downstairs as we came in. Before I could say anything, Kirti said, “Shirley, is that you?”

  Chuckling, Martha said, “Afraid not, but thanks for the compliment.” Turning, she yelled up the stairs. “Shirley! You’ve got a client!”

  I frowned. “Client?”

  “Didn’t I tell you about Shirley’s hobby? She helps people with things.”

  The kid herself came down. “Hello?”

  “Is that you, Shirley?” Kirti asked.

  “Of course. And you’re Kirti Prakash. You and I both took the ‘Ecology: A Human Approach’ class two semesters ago.”

  “Oh, good, you do remember me.”

  “I remember everything—well, everything important, and many things that aren’t, including every excruciating moment of that class. I should have realized from the name that it was a waste of time. It isn’t as if there’s such a thing as a robotic approach to ecology.”

  Shirley took Kirti into the sitting room, and I was about to go upstairs. Martha, though, stopped me. “Stay. You should watch this.”

  “Watch what?”

  “My niece in action. Trust me.”

  I was about to say no, but I was curious, and besides, I was supposed to be Shirley’s “companion.” Maybe I could help with whatever Kirti’s problem was.

  This time Shirley took her meeting in the sitting room. In the weeks I’d been in the townhouse, I hadn’t been in this room except to walk through it. There was a back staircase to the kitchen that I used occasionally if I needed something that wasn’t in my own kitchenette, but otherwise I didn’t hardly use the first floor except to walk in and walk out.

  Shirley sat in a nice easy chair that was pretty well worn, but looked real comfy. Kirti sat on the couch, and I took a smaller chair that was near the big fireplace.

  First thing Shirley said was, “I take it your shift at Starbucks just ended?”

  “Yes, I—” Kirti’s eyes got all wide. “How did you know I work at Starbucks?”

  “It’s obvious. The coffee that is sold at Starbucks has a particular odor—not, I might add, a particularly pleasant one—and enough of it lingers to indicate that Kirti was in the store for many hours. In addition, there are coffee grounds under her fingernails, indicating that her lengthy stay in the establishment was due to her working behind the counter rather than as a customer. Every time I saw her on campus, she had her hair down, even in warm weather, much less the just-above-freezing temperatures of today, but it’s tied up in the style of baristas at Starbucks to wear under their regulation caps.”

  Kirti shook her head. “I knew I was right to come to you, you’re so brilliant! And yes, I do work at the Starbucks on Broadway. I don’t really need to—my college bills are paid by my trust, and I live with my parents—but the extra money is useful sometimes, and I like interacting with people.” She let out a breath. “But none of that matters. Shirley, you’re the only one who can help me. My fiancé has gone missing!”

  “And you haven’t reported him to the police since they would then talk to your parents, and they disapprove of the union?”

  Kirti opened her mouth and closed it. “How did you know that?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She let out a long sigh. “But if you insist, you aren’t wearing an engagement ring, but since you entered, you have fiddled with your left ring finger several times, and stared down longingly at it several more times. You’re devoted enough to your fiancé to seek out my help, yet you’re not wearing the ring, which means you’ve been pressured into not wearing it, and such pressure would likely come from your parents.”

  “It’s primarily my father. Well, actually, he’s my stepfather—he married my mother two years ago. My biological father died when I was a girl, but he left me with a trust.”

  Shirley nodded. “You already mentioned that. Do you have access to this trust?”

  Shaking her head, Kirti said, “Not until I get married. My stepfather has been very strict about who I might date, which is his right, of course.”

  I snorted and then turned it into a cough so I didn’t piss Kirti off.

  “He doesn’t even like me to go to parties. The last six months or so, he’s been particularly adamant. I still go, but usually only when he’s away on business—he travels a great deal for his job.”

  “You met your fiancé at one of these parties?”

  Kirti nodded. “His name is José Hernandez. We met at a party at a friend’s apartment on 117th Street. He was off in the corner, not talking to anyone, and wearing dark glasses even though we were inside and at night. I was attracted to him right away—he’s completely bald, but with a thick beard, and I’ve always found that look to be rather sexy.” She got a shy smile when she said that. “In any case, I struck up a conversation. Turns out he’s been very sensitive to light his whole life, which is why he wears the tinted lenses. I had a difficult time speaking to him at first, because his voice is very quiet, so I could hardly understand him, but we went up onto the roof of the building and then I could hear him properly. He used to be in the Army, and he was wounded in the throat when he served in Iraq and it damaged his vocal cords. That’s why he grew the beard, to cover the scarring.”

  “You began dating after that party?” Shirley asked.

  “Yes. We went out twice, but once my stepfather returned from his business trip we didn’t see each other. I told him I met someone, and he was furious that I went out with a man he didn’t know or approve of. The fact that he’s a Latino didn�
��t help matters, unfortunately—my parents are very old-fashioned.”

  I swallowed another snort. That much was kind of obvious.

  “Unfortunately, José became very skittish after that. We texted each other constantly, and he said the most wonderful things, but he was afraid to see me for fear of what my stepfather would do. But we did get together a few times when my stepfather was away on business, and on one of those dates, he proposed! It was so romantic—we were at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and he suddenly got down on one knee and gave me the ring! He not only asked me to marry him, but to swear eternal devotion to him, which of course I did! We promised each other, right there at the Temple of Dendur, to always be true to each other. We agreed to marry the next week!”

  “Since you keep referring to José as your fiancé, I take it that he disappeared before the wedding?”

  Kirti let out a huge sigh. “Yes. We were to meet at the courthouse a week and a half ago. He met my mother and I at our apartment—”

  I couldn’t help blurting out, “Wait, your mother? You said your parents didn’t approve.”

  “My mother changed her mind after he proposed. She said that all that mattered was that I was happy. But he forgot the wedding rings, so he had to go back to his apartment. He put my mother and I in a cab and said he’d meet us at the courthouse.” Her lips started trembling. “I never saw him again. We waited at the courthouse for hours, and I texted him, but nothing! I’ve been texting him, and I even sent him an email and left him a note on Facebook, even though he doesn’t check either of them all that often. Nothing.”

  “Did you try going to his place?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure where it is,” Kirti said ruefully. “He said he lives in Harlem, but I never went to his apartment. He shares it with two other men, and he says they’ve agreed never to bring anyone home.”

  Shirley stared at the floor for a couple seconds, and then looked up. “Do you have pictures of José and of your parents?”

  “Of course, I’ve got them on my phone.” Kirti frowned. “Why my parents?”

  “It will help me with the investigation,” Shirley said, and then gave Kirti her number so she could text the pictures.