by S E Holmes
ginger tart trap, did you?” His expression was far too sympathetic. “That serving girl’s as pleasant as a rabid cat.”
“It’s nothing. Just a little asthma.” Davey thrust the coffee at him, unwilling to admit the humiliation. His uncle took the cup and leaned tiredly on the tabletop.
“Thanks. You don’t have to stay, you don’t want. I couldn’t abide the lecture from your mother if you keeled over under my supervision.” He winked.
Davey’s curiosity burst forth. “What happened here?”
“Who knows? Make something up and we’ll be closer to the truth. This place is a museum. Nothin’s gonna wash out this stink. It’s plain unnatural.”
“Can I check it out before I leave? Maybe I’ll learn something.”
Horace smiled at this improvement in attitude and nodded. “You can’t miss her. The chief’s got his dander up. Just follow the wounded-bull roar. And Davey?” Davey paused and turned back to his uncle. “Don’t touch anything, no matter the temptation.”
A little credit! He was an academy rookie, not a fool. Davey made his way towards the rear of the house, down a long corridor that ended in a T-intersection. A bustle of activity led the way to an office in the right-hand cul-de-sac. Classy paintings, statues and fixtures jammed every available space. In his admittedly limited knowledge, it all looked worth a bucket.
A sweet, spicy odour eased his lungs the closer he got. He’d expected essence of cadaver. Arriving, Davey froze just inside the doorframe. The furniture cluttered the side furthest from him; an Oriental rug rolled up and pushed carelessly against the rest. A mutilated dead woman sat Buddha-like in the centre of the room, three tall black candles molten around her. Under the blaze of four police spotlights arranged in a square, a glassy prison welded her petite frame in place. She reminded Davey horribly of Spielberg’s Jurassic mosquito encased in amber.
Busy investigators failed to eclipse his attention, as if time slowed in a halo about her. She was very beautiful. Gross as it was, Davey couldn’t help thinking it. Her big eyes stared a thousand miles, strands tumbling from a messy bun, varnished lips sealed forever, and cream pants carved in resin.
He jerked his focus from her chest, where a bloody cavity peeled her sternum, bone and sinew visible. This tiny woman appeared to have stabbed herself, hands fixed in wilted prayer. But the blade was missing. Davey felt even more confused, amongst a turmoil of other less precise emotions. Such fuss over a suicide? He’d thought this was a murder. If not, a robbery? The burglars weren’t so thorough, easily transportable gem-studded ornaments dotting the room. Besides, with all the security they’d have to be Ocean’s Eleven.
And every time he glanced away, two triangles, one inside the other, wrought in red crayon, flickered from the ground. They made a frame surrounding her, which was filled with unknown symbols. No matter how hard he tried to hold the image, it vanished the moment he looked directly at the poor dead lady. His intuition squirmed.
“That knife’s crucial evidence! And it’s an heirloom worth more than my lifelong salary. It was there a moment ago!” the chief bawled from his position by a spotlight, his head lit up like a fire siren. “How in the mothering disaster could somebody pilfer it? We can’t budge her!”
Four officers even more florid than the chief grappled Ms Baptiste’s limbs, pulling and heaving with much swearing and no movement. A nearby technician smirked at Davey, as if he’d never seen a corpse.
“You okay, kid?” she asked. “If you’re going to up-chuck, take it outside. You don’t want to contaminate the scene.”
He’d been hunting with his uncle for years and was not the squeamish type. Davey fingered his baton, but didn’t have the nuts to utter a comment about the techy’s enormous butt matching her mouth. Besides, nausea was not the main problem. Could no one else see that triangle? Or feel the faint throb it emitted? If he tilted his head and didn’t stare straight, it luminesced from the edge of his vision.
He rallied to speak. “Hey, excuse me, guys … can anyone see—?” But the words were drowned by an outburst from the chief.
“Use a jackhammer for all I care. Get the whole lot to the lab! And find that damned knife!” The chief barrelled for the door. “Make sure there are plenty of photos!” he barked over a shoulder.
Davey scuttled out of the way and tried again, much louder. “Anyone see a drawing on the ground? A red triangle.”
“Ah, sir?”
“What, Mumford? What!” The chief lunged back inside, jowls quivering.
“We,” the video archivist croaked, “can’t seem to photograph the scene.”
“I am not an artistic man, Mumford. But even I could capture a few unhappy snaps with that whizzbang equipment the State generously purchases on your behalf. If you’re not up for the task, pass it to someone who is, and sign yourself up to shoot pictures of toddlers at the mall. Stop wasting my time!”
The mouthy one next to Davey stepped forward. “It’s not just Mumford, sir. We’ve tried on four different cameras and video. The digital frames are black every time. I’ve taken film, but no promises.”
“Guess not.” Davey gave up, positive the red triangle existed.
Never again would he disregard the bad vibe yelling, “stay in the car!” This tomb should have been left sealed. The chief devoted an opera to his disappointment and all present cowered. Davey didn’t catch a word. He slumped against the wall, transfixed by her, a terrible premonition knotting his bowels.
“Track down that unknown caller. Pronto! Goddamn it all to hell.”
“You mean the hell aside from this one?” Davey muttered to himself, gnawing his nails to the quick.
He wondered if that Egyptologist fellow, Carter, felt the same on cracking Tutankhamen’s crypt, ever after cursing his team to bad luck and death. Someone had cared about the victim, though, and phoned in details. Old Edith, who worked the switch, claimed she’d not heard a man more wrecked by sorrow in all her years. Otherwise, the Baptiste lady would have rested undiscovered for eternity. Davey felt sure she was meant to remain that way, her house a monument keeping its dire secrets. But someone wanted a proper burial for her. Or, thought Davey, to secretly gloat.
Two
The doddering Languages master, Werner, ripped the tape from Mallory’s mouth. She winced and I prayed it was as painful as it looked.
“Better quick than slow,” he squeaked bracingly.
I watched over a seething patchwork of heads, balanced on one of the stacked benches at the very back of the huge dining-hall-cum-auditorium. The students of the Albert Einstein Boarding Academy (a gross insult to the great man) had surged in like battery hens, but the excitement of this breakfast surprise kept them on their feet, whooping and hollering. Plates of bacon and eggs, their yokes crusting deserted forks, toast and bowls of porridge, were scattered on long tables lining the space, forgotten and going cold. They were too focused on the teachers’ platform in front.
Eating was certainly furthest from my mind. The guilt at ruining my promise to Aunt Bea to behave, undoing months of good work despite the liars and cheats and bullies swarming this place like flies on crap, gnawed at my conscience. I was expected to rise above it all. Right now, the hope I could worm out of trouble took priority.
“It was Winsome! The freak! Daddy will press charges. We’re suing the school! There she is!” Mallory bawled, jerking her head in my direction, her lips swollen and red. “I was sleeping in my dorm when she barged in and kidnapped me. I woke up here, taped so tight I can barely breathe. It’s a federal offence! Call the FBI!”
Her apparent suffocation didn’t impede the chest-heaving drama. She was gaffer-taped from shoulders to knees on a desk chair on the teachers’ dais. Her partner in crime, Chad, was positioned next to her in identical bondage. The two of them looked like pupae squirming in silver cocoons. Their eyebrows were absent. A sign on his chest announced in large red letters: Chad blows goat. Mallory’s said: Danger – Herpes. Their mottos inspired peals of laughter as
the hall filled.
Principal ‘the crow’ Bird and the clueless student counsellor, Mr Jenkins, stalked the perimeter in outrage. A smart person would have hidden in her room, but curiosity always ruled my world. Mallory burst into theatrical sobs, not quite as convincing without a swoon. That could wait until the court case. Time to squash my nerves and row my meagre defences.
“Winsome Light! Here, now!” The crow returned to the stage and offered Mallory a comforting pat on the shoulder. Jenkins followed like a dutiful lackey.
The crow’s scowl pinned me from across the hall, commanding me to move. The awful woman was a Coco Chanel wannabe, suit buttoned to her throat, unburdened by the trademark cigarette and genuine style. Everyone present swivelled and attention fell upon me like an inquisitor’s glare. Old boy Werner waved his Stanley knife with hands as steady as a windsock in a high gale. Chad wriggled away from the blade. He was such a moron! No punishment stole the beauty of the scene. What could they do to me? The threat of expulsion seemed an incentive, if not for my long-suffering Aunt Bea.
I sighed and jumped from the bench. Faces tracked me eagerly as I trudged to the gallows, jostled by kids toned, pudgy and bony. My popularity was on par with vaccinations. I told myself again it didn’t matter, that the opinion of my fellow inmates was my least concern.
As I neared,