Thirteen Authors With New Takes on Sherlock Holmes

by Michael A. Ventrella

  Professor MacAfee looks to her right and then left—watching for someone to come down the hall, perhaps? I could step aside and let her into my sanctuary, but I’m cautious. There’s a reason I room by myself—it’s easier than dealing with odd looks and minimizes comments being made behind my back. In boarding school, I couldn’t escape the mandatory requirement that I room with someone. For years my name was whispered among my peers as they talked about how different and observant I am, as if knowing your surroundings is a crime. For college, I forged my own path and made sure my roommate application was filled out meticulously so I could room by myself. It’s laughable how the administration never asked for my medical records when I stated I was allergic to everything.

  “May I come in?” she asks, her voice low, but not quite a whisper. The hint of desperation almost makes me feel sorry for her, but to be sorry I’d have to have some sort of empathy toward her and I don’t.

  I look at her, wondering why she would need to come into my room when the hallway, or better yet the library, would be a suitable place to speak. Chief Smith has a prejudice against me; for all I know this is a setup, a ploy to get into my dorm to see what information I have acquired on any of his recent cases.

  “I don’t think that’s necessary,” I state, watching as her face falls. She hangs her head briefly before looking at me with unshed tears.

  “Please,” she begs quietly. “I’ll lose my job if you don’t help me.”

  Two things strike me as odd and interesting: One, she says she’s going to lose her job. What has she done to warrant such a desperate measure as to knock on a freshman’s dorm room door asking for help, and at the suggestion of the town’s famed police chief? Two, why is it my issue?

  My curiosity, as always, gets the best of me, and I step aside and let her enter. My room is nothing like your average girl’s dorm room. I have a map of the city, pinpointing the recent rash of petty crimes. To call them a spree would be in haste, although if the person isn’t caught soon their minor attempts at notoriety will eventually escalate because they got bored. Criminals like attention, especially from the media. They want to hear people talking about them and they want to know that they’re striking fear in the community. None of that is happening.

  “Chief Smith was right.”

  “About what exactly?”

  The Professor pulls out my desk chair and sits, leaving me no other place to rest than my bed. I choose to stand, giving her the illusion that I’m taller than I am.

  “I have myself in a pickle and I believe, after speaking with Chief Smith, you’re the only one who can help me. You see, I’m one of the few teachers that still grade on a curve and my final is one of the hardest students will take. Each year, I’ve changed it drastically from the previous one to prevent students from sharing their results. After I type up the final, I print one copy with my answers and save another one to a thumb drive that I lock in my drawer. The final is in three days and both the printed copy and thumb drive are missing.”

  “Why not create a new final?”

  “Time,” she says, shaking her head. “I don’t have it. It takes me two to three months to compile the questions and answers.”

  “Have you looked—?”

  She holds up her hand and smiles, effectively cutting me off. “I have looked everywhere. I am, without a doubt, a creature of habit. Very rarely do I deviate from a plan or change course, except when it comes to the questions I ask on my final. I understand that being this way is likely a downfall.”

  I could tell her that I’m the same way, but the less she knows about me, the better. I don’t want her feeling like we’ll be friends after this, or even in the future. I’ll never have her for a professor, as agriculture isn’t on my list of classes to take.

  “I don’t understand where I come into this, or Chief Smith.”

  “Simple, Lock. I need you to find out who stole the final.”

  “Can you just flunk everyone in your class? Surely threatening them with a failing grade will get them to crow.”

  Her eyes are inquisitive as she looks at me. She may be my intellectual match, or she might be another person who wants to exploit my skills.

  “And why not ask Chief Smith to find the culprits?”

  “Culprits? You think there’s more than one?”

  I mentally chide myself for giving her a clue. Of course there are two. You always need a lookout. Depending on the layout of her office, three or four could be possible. Someone knew where to find her thumb drive and final, therefore someone from her past, an aide or student teacher with knowledge of the items’ location, is the one singing Dixie.

  It’s best to be quiet when you don’t want to answer a question, although in most criminal investigations that can prove you’re somewhat guilty.

  “To answer your question about Chief Smith—I went to him, but they’re busy with other things and don’t have time to look for an answer key. The administration would not see this as favorable for my employment and I’m hoping to renew my contract.” Professor MacAfee stands and starts pacing in my overly small room.

  “I’ll pay you for your services, Lock. It’d be much easier if a student were asking questions than a police officer or campus security. Students clam up when the men in blue come knocking on their door.”

  She has a point and I do love a good challenge. Being able to solve a crime on campus may give me the respect of the police chief. He’d have to acknowledge that I know what I’m doing, whether he likes it or not.

  “I’d have to sit in on your class. I need to be able to observe,” I say before realizing I’ve essentially agreed to help her. She nods furiously, her head bobbing up and down like a yo-yo. “And I’ll need access to your office.”

  “It’s yours,” she says, coming over to me and shaking my hand. I pull away quickly, tucking my hands in the pockets of my jeans to avoid her touching me again.

  “I’ll see you in a half hour,” I tell her, much to her confusion. “Your class, advanced agroecology—it starts in thirty minutes. I’m assuming that is the class missing the final.”

  “Oh, right. I’ll see you then.”

  I move her toward the door, whether she’s ready or not. I need to get on my computer and learn as much as I can about agroecology before I step into her class. If I’m going to befriend someone in there, I need to know what I’m talking about.

  • • •

  John Watson

  My brothers from Delta Phi gather around one of the many tables in Cook Commons, one of the few eateries we have on campus. Most of the time we don’t have the ability to go back to our frat house to eat, so we meet here. Brown trays full of food cover the table, giving us less space than the table actually offers. I squeeze between Roger Stallworth, known as the largest man on campus, and Warren Beatty (not to be confused with the actor), my roommate.

  This is my third year in Delta Phi and I love it more than ever. I’ve just been named house treasurer and after last year’s fiasco of our toga party gone wrong, I’m determined to make sure our frat donates money to charitable causes. I’m incredibly thankful that charities don’t ask how the money was obtained, because having guys do handstands on kegs for payment probably isn’t an acceptable way of raising money. When the school asks, I tell them we charge people coming in to watch our eighty-five-inch high-definition television. We do, of course, but our profit isn’t earth-shattering.

  “Who are you bringing to the ski lodge?” Jennifer Jamison asks as she sits down, acting as if she owns the table. It’s only on a rare occasion that we let any of the female population sit with us at our lunch table. Lunch is a man’s hour, even for those with girlfriends, according to our bylaws.

  The ski lodge isn’t what it sounds like. It’s the party we host every year at the end of finals week, which will be in three days. We decorate our house like a ski lodge, complete with a flooded-out back yard that we turn into an icy ski jump. It’s not customary that you bring a date unle
ss you’re looking for a little side action from that co-ed.

  “Are you looking for a hookup?” Roger waggles his eyebrows at Jennifer, much to her disgust. Warren and I laugh. Jennifer is always looking for the next “in,” even though she’s on the cheerleading squad and a pledge at one of the biggest sororities on campus. Her plan is to marry rich and live the life of high society. She may want to reconsider her plan, though, since none of our athletes are making it to the pros.

  “You wish,” she says, picking a piece of food off one of Roger’s many plates. I tire quickly of Jennifer and Roger’s back-and-forth conversation and start working on my lunch. My upcoming final in biochemistry has me perplexed. Between needing to study and my duties at the fraternity, time is not my friend. I am the only medical major in the house. My brothers have chosen paths in business, communications, and teaching, leaving their schedules much more flexible. My choice to pledge when I was a freshman was based solely on how my time in the house would look on my résumé. Taking the position of treasurer proves that I’m responsible and will benefit me when I apply for a loan to open my own practice. I’m always thinking ahead.

  Warren elbows me and nods toward the table two away from us. Sitting there is none other than Lock Holmes, the object of my desires. Only she doesn’t know I exist, despite my many attempts at getting her attention.

  The first time I saw her was at freshman orientation. I was there, representing Delta Phi, looking for new pledges. She was there, of course, because it’s mandatory that all incoming students attend. From the moment I laid eyes on her, I felt a stirring that I can only describe as heart palpitations. I’ve tried to recreate those feelings with other girls, but to no avail. It only happens when I see her, or when her eyes briefly meet mine in what I know to be nothing more than an accident.

  Since that first day, I’ve strategically placed myself in her path only to be shunned or ignored. I’ve become a stalker, of sorts, hanging out in the library because I can see her dorm room window from the third floor. This acknowledgment alone should land me in the slammer for my voyeuristic ways.

  “I don’t know what you see in her,” Warren says, much to my displeasure. Everyone sees beauty differently and just because Lock Holmes comes off as odd doesn’t make her any less gorgeous than the other women on campus. To me, her fragmentary style is what makes her stand out among the masses. She’s not like every other Barbie doll walking the brick paths of campus.

  “What don’t you see in her?” I counter, hoping he’ll take a long look at his superficial requirements when it comes to women. I used to be like him, only wanting skinny blondes with voluptuous racks. That all changed when I spotted Lock from across the room, with her chestnut hair and slender figure. Had she been graced with eyes of caramel brown to contrast with her hair, blue to accent the sky, or were they as green as the spring grass? Finding out has become a task, one that I fully intend to fulfill.

  “She’s plain,” he says, under his breath. He knows how I feel about sharing any love interest with the rest of our house, so at least he’s mindful to keep my crush under the radar. Even though we label ourselves as brothers in the fraternity house, we’re still human and human nature tends to lead you astray. I’ve seen brothers battle each other over women. I don’t care to battle anyone over Lock, although if tested, I will.

  “I don’t find her plain at all. I find her refreshing. Look at her, Warren. She doesn’t conform to today’s cultural standards where co-eds must look a certain way. Her clothes aren’t the same designer trends the others walk around in, but she’s well dressed. Her hair isn’t a rainbow of colors or perfectly coiffed each time she steps out of her dorm. I like the fact that she’s here to study and not intermingle in the social scene.”

  Warren looks at me and laughs as I finish my speech. I hadn’t realized I’d kept going, but my heart takes over when my mind should lead when it comes to Lock. Even though my infatuation is purely physical, I have no doubt that once I get to know her, all the pieces for a long-lasting romance will fall into place.

  “She’s staring at you.”

  “What?” I blink quickly so I can focus on Lock. She’s looking at me with what I hope is an interested expression.

  “You should go over there and ask her to the ski lodge party.”

  I quickly glance at Roger to see if he’s been listening to Warren and me, only to find him sleeping upright with his mouth hanging open. The other guys have vacated the table, leaving only the three of us.

  “Yeah, I think I should.” As the words tumble out of my mouth, my body freezes. I’ve never been shy about speaking to the opposite sex before, so I don’t understand why my feet aren’t moving and I’m suddenly immobile. My chair should be scraping against the linoleum floor and my legs moving into the standing position, followed by putting one foot in front of the other.

  “Don’t be a pansy,” Warren says in the most encouraging way.

  “I’m going to do it.” I push my hands down on the table and force myself to stand. The gaze Lock and I share hasn’t wavered and a small part of me is excited by the fact that she could be interested. If she’s not, I go back to admiring from afar or until I can convince her otherwise.

  Each step causes a bit of anxiety. My palms start to sweat and my heart picks up speed the closer I get. My legs feel heavy, as if bricks are cemented to the bottom of my shoes, trying to hold me down. The worst she’s going to say is no when I ask her, but I’ll be able to hear her voice and commit it to memory. It’s the small things in life that make a difference to me.

  I square my shoulders and take each step with purpose. She watches me, making me wonder what she’s thinking. I have no doubt that she and I could spend hours in an intellectual debate. It’d be worth the time spent to figure out if we’re compatible or if we’re opposites who will fight and bicker until we make up in a mad, passionate embrace. Those thoughts cause me to falter in my steps, stumbling into the empty chair at her table. My hands grip the edge, holding the table in place before I accidentally push it into her.

  Clearing my throat and standing straight, I introduce myself. “I’m John Watson,” I say, extending my hand for her taking. Except she leaves me hanging, her eyes wandering all over me like I’m the subject in some sort of weird experiment that I didn’t sign off on.

  “Delta Phi treasurer?”

  Her voice is pleasantly soft and soothing. I don’t know what I expected, but I’m surprised. I’m curious how she knows about my fraternity and duties there; it seems my reputation precedes me. Not that I have a reputation that casts me in a bad light. I smile graciously and pull the chair out and sit down, taking a bold step as far as I’m concerned. She didn’t invite me or even show the slightest indication that she would like to continue this conversation.

  Before any embarrassing words tumble from my mouth, I seek out her eyes. My mother has always told me that the eyes are the window to one’s soul; they’ll tell a story if you ask the right questions. Lock’s eyes could be no different if I play my cards right. The hazel color seems to dance around with the overhead light, flickering and changing from specks of green to brown depending on the angle of her head.

  “That I am. Lock Holmes, right?”

  Her eyes widen as I say her name; she seems surprised that I know her. If she had any idea how I’ve watched her since the beginning of the semester, she’d likely be running for the hills. One thing I don’t know about her is her major. When I’ve seen her, she’s walking across campus or has her finger dragging along the spines of books in our library. I’m never there long enough to see what academic books she’s reading.

  “How did you know my name?” I ask her, needing to know if she, too, has been checking me out.

  Lock leans forward, resting her forearms on the brown cafeteria table. “I know a lot about you, John Watson.” The way she says my name, it’s endearing, yet quizzical.

  “I’d like to get to know you, Lock Holmes. Delta Phi is having their annua
l end-of-the semester ski lodge party and I’d love it if you’d accompany me as my date.”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  I jump slightly at the sense of shock, which quickly turns to elation. This is the easiest date I’ve ever gotten.

  • • •

  Lock Holmes

  Earlier in the day

  Charlie Bell: suspect number one and Professor MacAfee brownnoser. From the moment he walked into the auditorium he’s been nothing but complimentary toward his teacher, and even though she’s been nothing more than civil in return, a few glances in his direction lead to me to believe there may be something more than academic going on there.

  Suspect number two, Ginger Ralph: spent the entire time I was monitoring the class vying for the professor’s attention, but never received the simplest acknowledgment. Between the sideways glances she was giving Charlie and her dejected posture after not being called on, I think she’d have enough motive to steal the semester final.

  I wouldn’t be surprised if Ginger suspects the same as I do about MacAfee and Mr. Bell and is planning on using it to her advantage. After a quick search in the administration’s database—more accurately, the dean of students’ computer—it seems Charlie Bell has been attending school for six years and needs to pass agroecology in order to graduate. His current grade is a D- and he would need to ace the final in order to pass, and score higher than everyone else in class.

  Charlie Bell comes from money and has been buying his way through school for the past few years. He’s also the president of Delta Phi. According to their bylaws, a student must be in good standing in order to remain in office there. I know this because I read their bylaws after they so kindly decorated our dorm with toilet paper. Yet he’s far from an upstanding academic student and by all accounts should be living off campus.

  Ms. Ralph’s academic record is less than stellar, but she’s still in the middle range in the junior class. This is the second time she’s had to take agroecology, having barely passed the first time; the passing grade isn’t enough to maintain the requirements for her degree.