by Madison, Ada
“Who discovered the break-in?” (Celia from Virgil; Evelyn from Bruce, leading me to conclude that it was one or both of the elderly sisters who lived directly west of me. They’d called the police and reported suspicious activity in my driveway. I was grateful and proud of the HPD for acknowledging the sisters, who were easily rattled and called for help often.)
“How did he get in?” (Through the patio doors off your bedroom, from Virgil; A new super lock is already in place, from Bruce.)
“How bad was it here before Bruce cleaned up?” (I didn’t see it, from Virgil; Not that bad, really, from Bruce.)
“Do you think the guy was after me personally, to harm me, or did he want to shake me up by messing with my things?” (A shrug from each, then Anybody’s guess, from Virgil.)
“Did the officers who responded lift any fingerprints?” (Oh yeah, from Virgil.)
“Do you think you’ll get anything from the fingerprints?” (A shake of his head and Probably not, from Virgil.)
A wave of tiredness came over me. I put my head down, then raised it to speak. “If I say you both have to go so I can get some sleep, will you hold it against me?”
Bruce started off, and soon the faux Bellamy Brothers were belting out a song in my kitchen as they cleared the cups and plates. They danced toward the door. Not the reaction I’d expected when I paraphrased a favorite song of ours, but it was the best laugh I’d had in a long time.
“Will you let me know if anything develops?” I asked Virgil, at the door.
“Of course, I’ll add another sheet of carbon paper when I type up my report.”
“Good, I’ll need to know about whether you can dig Wendy’s number out of my phone, whether the hundred-dollar bill has any useful information stuck to it, and when you have complete IDs on the two workers.”
Virgil pretended to be writing on his hand. “Anything else?”
“Not at the moment, but I’ll see you at the station at four, when the foreman shows up to watch the video.”
“You don’t need to do that,” Bruce said. He’d returned from another quick walk-through, during which he’d checked all the locks. “Don’t set your alarm clock, okay? You should just sleep—”
“Bye, guys,” I said, with gentle shoves, and closed the door.
• • •
Through the patio doors of my breakfast nook, I watched Bruce and Virgil walk slowly down the driveway, heads together, talking. I had no doubt about the topic. They stood at the end of the walkway for a few minutes, until an unmarked, but clearly identifiable, police sedan pulled up. Virgil talked to the occupant, then he and Bruce drove away in Bruce’s car.
Progress, I thought. My posse was down to only one local unmarked car.
My first order of business: strip my bed. What if the intruder had sat on it, or even touched my pillows, perhaps leaning on one as he opened the drawer of my nightstand? It wasn’t practical for me to divest my home of every piece of furniture and all my possessions, but I could cleanse key areas.
I pulled the drapes across my glass patio doors, hiding the entryway that had provided access to my intruder. I threw all the bed linens into the laundry area—sheets, blanket, spread, pillowcases, mattress cover, bed skirt, shams—and ran a couple washes using hot water, a setting I rarely chose. I couldn’t guarantee that I wouldn’t toss all the linens in the trash once they were clean, but this was a start.
I showered (after a serious spraying of the tile) and put on my warmest fleece robe. I grabbed a pillow from the closet (the crime scene ones were history), wrapped a clean blanket around myself, and flopped onto my bare mattress.
I started counting, but didn’t get to thirteen.
• • •
I woke up to a phone call at two thirty in the afternoon. Judy Donohue apologized profusely when she realized I’d been sleeping. My foggy morning voice, no matter that it was midday, gave me away. I decided to spare her all the reasons for my disrupted schedule.
“No problem,” I said. “I need to get moving anyway.”
“You heard about the guy in the basement?” she asked.
“I did,” I said, as we both made audible shuddering sounds.
“What if I’d . . . ?” Judy trailed off.
“Let’s not go there,” I said.
“Agreed. Are you going to the police station for a look at the new video footage this afternoon?”
“Yes. You, too?”
Judy cleared her throat. “Detective Mitchell invited me to, if I was free.”
It wasn’t clear why I needed to know this, until Judy asked, “Do you think you could pick me up?”
“Uh, sure.” I untangled myself from the blanket and sat up against my headboard. It occurred to me that I hadn’t cleaned the wood, and the intruder might have . . . I climbed out of bed, brushed off a chair by the patio doors, and sat there, facing the patches of snow where my garden should have been.
“You’re probably wondering why I’m asking for a ride,” Judy said.
“Sort of, but I’m happy to do it. Did your car die?” I knew all about battery problems.
“No, no. Can I ask you something?”
“Of course. What’s up?”
Judy’s pause was long enough to make me worry. I hoped I didn’t have to add another friend-in-trouble to my list.
“What is it, Judy?”
“Okay. Is Detective Mitchell . . . Virgil . . . seeing anyone right now?”
What? Could Judy possibly mean what I thought she meant? Not literally, was Virgil at this moment looking a suspect in the eye, for example, but was Virgil seeing someone? As in dating?
My turn for a long pause, and Judy picked up on it.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, Sophie. Or if you don’t know, it’s okay. It’s just . . . I think I’m getting some signals, but I don’t want to make a fool of myself.”
It took great effort not to blurt out how shocked I was. To say that Virgil was not Judy’s type would be like saying that Julia Child and Mahatma Gandhi would have little in common on a dinner date. Since her divorce about three years ago, Judy had dated only men who looked like fitness instructors, one of whom had, in fact, been her personal trainer.
Virgil, on the other hand—well, Virgil considered lumbering up my long driveway to be his exercise for the week.
“No,” I managed. “Virgil’s not seeing anyone.” I thought about his strangely chipper behavior lately. “But he’s acting as though he’s about to start.”
“You’re sure? I mean, you think I should trust these signals?”
“I’m sure,” I said.
I heard a sigh. “Oh, good, then. You’re probably a little surprised, huh?”
We both took a minute for a laugh. “A little. But I’m thrilled for both of you.”
“It’s not like we’re engaged, Sophie.”
“Yet,” we both said, and laughed again.
“I’ll pick you up in about an hour.”
I’d realized, finally, that Judy wanted a ride to the station in case she and Virgil ended up leaving the HPD together. I was dumbstruck for a minute. Judy’s and Virgil’s paths had crossed many times through my association with both of them. Still, I’d never pictured them getting together. Also, I knew that in the same situation, I’d be taking my own car in case the evening didn’t work out well—which wasn’t the only clue that Judy was more adventurous than I could ever be.
The thought, once I got past the unexpectedness of it, really did thrill me. As far as Bruce and I knew, Virgil hadn’t dated at all since his wife died a few years ago. His personal attention went to his son, who was now in college.
I clicked off with Judy, thoughts of double-dating for pizza night dancing in my head. My phone rang again immediately. Bruce this time.
“Hey. Have a good sleep?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, though now that I was awake, I felt all the unresolved issues of the last few days pile up on my shoulders. Jenn’s attack. My co
mputer and credit card problems. The short life of Kirsten Packard. The missing Wendy Carlson. The violation of my personal space. The murdered Ponytail. And someone who called himself Einstein, of all people.
“Who was on the phone? I heard you mention Virgil.”
“You’re not going to believe this. Judy Donohue asked me if—wait, how did you know . . . ?”
“I’m here. Walking toward you now,” he said. “I didn’t want to pop up in front of you and scare you.”
“You’re here?”
And there he was, in the doorway to my bedroom. How had I not seen the signs, like the pile of clean, dry, folded bedclothes on my vanity chair? And the extra blanket thrown across my bed.
“When did you get here?” I asked.
“I never really left,” he said, as we hung up and faced each other. “I dropped Virge off at the station and slipped back in.”
“I didn’t hear you.”
“I pulled your door shut and stayed at the other end of the house. I’d make a good spy.”
Or a good intruder. I shook that image away and pointed to the clean laundry. “And you did all that?”
He looked proud of himself, as he should have. “I also stripped and washed the stuff on the guest bed. It’s all made up so you can sleep there if you want until this bed’s ready. In between, I’ve been watching Top Gun with the headphones on so I wouldn’t disturb you.”
“No wonder I slept so well,” I said. “Thank you.”
“You didn’t think I was going to leave you here alone after all that’s been going on?”
I gave him my biggest smile and my best hug. “I should have known better,” I said.
It wasn’t until we were on our way to pick up Judy that I remembered to tell Bruce about her potential pending date with Virgil.
“Did Virgil say anything to you about it?” I asked.
Bruce zipped his lips.
I poked his arm. “C’mon. I told you what I know.”
Bruce grinned at me from behind the wheel of my car. We’d taken my Honda, the better to fit another passenger. I gave him a look designed to elicit information, part coy, part threatening.
“I’ve been dying to tell you,” he said, with a big smile. “It seems your girlfriend might have been putting out vibes to my buddy that she was available. He didn’t want to make a fool of himself, though, so he asked me to ask you to ask her . . . Sound familiar?”
“Sounds like junior high. It also fits Judy. She’s not shy, but she wouldn’t want to fall on her face either.”
“You had too many more important things going on the last few days and I never got around to bringing it up with you.”
“This is very important,” I said, excited, happy to deal with an issue that wasn’t life or death. “This means there’s mutual interest.” I punched the air with my fist. “I like it.”
I felt like a schoolgirl who’d found her best friend a date for the prom. Not that I had any extra dates at the time.
• • •
Judy was ready and waiting, exiting her home as we pulled up. As usual she looked well put together. She was known for following the latest fashion trends but held to the old rule that a lady’s shoes must always match her purse. Today both were a bright green, the perfect complement to her red blond hair. It was clear that her outfit was chosen with Virgil in mind. Her wool coat was a classic style, nothing a model would wear swinging down a runway. From under her coat, part of what I recognized as her newest sweater set was visible—conservative, but not my mother’s sweater set. The shawl cardigan was short, with a draped front, and buttonless. My summary: up to date, but within Virgil’s comfort zone.
“How do I look?” she asked, as she climbed into the backseat.
“You look terrific,” I said, with the enthusiasm I felt.
“Perfect for an evening at a police station,” Bruce said.
“I don’t think that’s what she wants to hear,” I said.
Judy laughed. “It’s exactly what I want to hear.”
I couldn’t remember seeing her in a better mood.
• • •
When we arrived, Pete Barker, the construction foreman for the Henley College carillon project, was in a private viewing session with Virgil and his investigative team. Barker was going over footage the rest of us had already seen, in particular, the Fighting Workers scene. I tried not to be too peeved that Virgil didn’t invite civilians, that is, me, to the early showing. With any luck, Barker would come through and we’d soon know the names of the two men—the real names of Ponytail and the Unknown Worker, plus Unknown’s nickname. I was rooting for “Einstein.”
I used the waiting time at the HPD to clear up other nuisances of the week, making a side trip to the service desk to file the official report of credit card fraud first. While I waited my turn, I scanned the pamphlet rack—information on personal safety, vehicle theft, and managing disruptive behavior. I wondered if the last one applied to classrooms. I thought of my violated home—was it too late for me to read the one on crime prevention?
A small child in front of me dropped the pamphlet she was playing with. I sincerely hoped the child was at the police station for a happy reason, such as getting fingerprinted for security purposes, or visiting a relative on the force.
I picked up the pamphlet, since Mom had another toddler in her arms, and, when no one in the family wanted it back, I looked through it myself. “The Henley City Flag” was its title. I had no idea we had our own flag, let alone that the colors were continental blue and buff, that it was silk, and had to be exactly five feet in length and three and a half feet in width, or any proportion thereof. I amused myself by calculating other permitted sizes, from two and a half feet long by one and three-quarters feet wide on the low end. I stopped at twenty-five feet long by seventeen and a half feet wide on the high end.
I scanned a pamphlet on email scams, but none of the examples fit my problem. I didn’t need a lecture about not handing over a few thousand of my dollars in order to collect untold millions from overseas. The leaflet did remind me that I still had to clear up my current email spam problem. When I checked earlier this afternoon, I found my inbox once again loaded with unwanted ads, in duplicate. No sooner did I delete the offending emails than they were back. I’d thought of asking Ted if he could do something about it, but he’d been so contrary recently, I hated to ask him. I did have a host of student whiz kids, like Andrew Davies, whom I could call on. I’d take care of that tomorrow.
By the time Bruce came to collect me for another show of surveillance footage, I’d completed the forms for both my credit card fraud and my home breakin. I was ready for a movie.
• • •
The HPD interview room, our theater for the afternoon, was decidedly less attractive than the music room on campus. Peeling paint; cracked, stained linoleum; duct-taped furniture; water marks on the ceiling. A true fixer-upper. Except that the place was scheduled to be abandoned soon, sour odors and all. I was happier than ever that I’d contributed to the new building fund.
What made the room even less inviting was the fact that I’d been in this run-down facility only a few hours ago, undergoing transfer from one police department to another.
Bruce and I took two seats in the closer of two semicircles that had formed around the video, with foreman Pete Barker, a short, balding man, in the center. I was glad to see a few different faculty members and one or two from the Admin staff who hadn’t come to the first session.
I leaned over to Bruce. “Did you know that Henley has a city flag?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said. “It’s continental blue and buff, the official colors of the city.”
I frowned at him. “Who are you? I don’t even know you.”
I was surprised when Andrew entered the room and took the seat next to me. I gave him a big smile, in preparation for asking a big favor soon.
“No one else wanted to come, but I want to do everything I can,” Andrew said, in
a sad tone, his mouth turned down. By “no one” I assumed he meant Willa, Lauren, Brent, and Patty, the students with whom he’d been traveling lately.
I gave him a pat on the back, realizing how much I’d missed contact with my students this weekend. Like most teachers, I seldom had a day “off” from them. There was always an email or text question to answer. What are your office hours this week? Is there a book I can read that explains limits better than our textbook? (Usually meaning better than I had done in class.) Or an invitation to an informal gathering. We’re getting together at the Mortarboard tonight. Come on over. Willa’s playing classical guitar. (Which could mean they’d discovered Peter, Paul and Mary.)
Hanging out with students, as we faculty all did to some extent, was a learning experience in itself. We had constant reminders that this was a generation who had never seen an airplane ticket, who watched TV shows almost anywhere but on a TV screen, and for whom partially exposed undergarments had always been a fashion standard.
I’d just gotten a quick update from Andrew on Jenn’s condition (nothing changed) and on Mr. and Mrs. Marshall (up in the air about moving Jenn to a hospital nearer home) when a knock—tap, tap, tap—sounded from the table that held the A/V system. Virgil calling us to attention. Conversations came to a halt.
Virgil introduced foreman Pete Barker—a stocky man and the best-dressed guy in the room, with wool pants and a sharp, blue gray sports coat—then announced that we were about to watch new footage from the Coffee Filter and the bank next door to it, on Main Street. I almost raised my hand to ask what were the names Barker had come up with for his two employees who couldn’t seem to get along. I looked at Bruce who apparently read my mind, maybe because I’d whined a lot in the last half hour about not being privy to the invitation-only session where Barker was to ID his workers. Bruce shook his head, ever so slightly, but I got the message and behaved.
I’d also been trying very hard to keep myself from studying the interaction between Virgil and Judy. Impossible. As we entered, I’d watched him take her coat. (Was that a broader grin than I’d ever seen on Virgil? A gleam in his eye?) Then he’d pulled out a chair for her. (Did she always tilt her head when she smiled? Flip her newly bobbed hair like that?) I guessed we wouldn’t be driving Judy home.