Game, Set, Murder

by Judith Mehl

  Kat explained, “I know that grapefruit, green tea, and kelp lower blood pressure, but I could use a good scientific reason. I’d also have to prove who was giving him daily citrus fruit and green tea. I doubt if he prepared all that fruit himself. Not Ed. Maybe the police have something that would help there, though I doubt they looked for grapefruit rinds in his trash the day of his demise,” she said with a frown.

  The wrinkled brow accompanying Kat’s statement worried Glinna. “Kat, you wouldn’t even think of slinking through garbage! Besides the slime, what would you do if you got caught?”

  “Glinna might be right,” she thought. “It might get pretty messy. Maybe she would leave that sort of research to the police after all.”

  Kat continued to browse while secretly watching Glinna look repeatedly out the display window. She didn’t want to leave without helping Glinna resolve some of her fears regarding the intruder; but the best she could think of was to watch carefully for his presence elsewhere around town. To Kat, the man’s most dangerous aspect was his good looks. If he was a schemer, Glinna was ripe for his charm. Kat elicited a promise from the shop owner not to commit to anything if he approached her next time he came to the store.

  She realized she was heading home without updates from Detective Burrows, and her spirit drooped. She vowed to tackle Burrows in the morning. She needed an evening alone with Nick. Kat mastered several of Nick’s favorite dishes in their first year of marriage and chose one for dinner. A cool, Spanish soup with crisp chunks of vegetables blended with red wine vinegar, garlic, red pepper, and cumin, called Gazpacho Loco.

  Though he seemed to enjoy the meal, Nick’s mind obviously clung elsewhere. She guessed he was looking for a solution to his latest case. G. L. arrived shortly thereafter, and lightened the mood by joking about the indignities of this case, trying to catch a carpet thief for an old friend. They planned an all-night surveillance.

  G. L. coaxed her into packing a midnight snack and a thermos of coffee. Nick teased him. “One more snack and we won’t be able to get you into our surveillance carpets!” G. L. and Kat both laughed, but she questioned, “What?! I thought you were taking turns doing stake-outs in your cars?”

  “We were until G. L. became really obvious. He made a second run down to the doughnut shop and the new cops on the beat rousted us, thinking we were loitering. By the time we explained who we were our existence there was a little too obvious so we devised an internal stake-out.”

  Kat had been sworn to secrecy regarding any of their investigations so that they could talk freely in front of her. They also welcomed her input, most of the time. She dubbed this case their carpet caper, unaware they were actually coiled up inside rolls of carpeting waiting for the thief. Earlier, Don Chaste, owner of Magic Carpet, Inc., (who hired them because of their reliable reputation and high success rate in finding offenders) had returned on several occasions to find a half dozen carpets missing. The doors were locked. No signs of a break-in.

  She stopped giggling when Nick strapped on his Beretta. He told her this was a low-key danger situation and that he wore it only as a precaution.

  On the way out he hesitated. “Do you want me to rearrange my surveillance schedule so I can stay home with you tonight?”

  She snuggled in for a hug and asked, “Why on earth would you want to do that?”

  He held her slightly away from his chest as he looked into her guileless eyes. “If I recall correctly, the last time someone was killed on campus, you did some reckless running around late at night meeting with suspects.”

  Kat promised good behavior. As Nick left, she sat down to formulate her list of potential killers. Sitting was not dangerous, and her pencil, though sharp, was far from a lethal weapon.

  Chapter 6

  Signs of goodness, caring, and integrity can be elusive in handwriting, but simple writing with even rhythm and spontaneous garlands provides clues. Friends who exhibit these signs should be valued.

  “Handwriting: A Key to Personality” by Klara G. Roman

  Kat knew some people regard handwriting analysis as exciting as oatmeal and few cared about loops in their letters. So why was she out at 3 a.m. looking for a gate in a long fence line just to view some scribbles? The crickets’ serenade stopped and stars disappeared. Ink would have been brighter.

  The caller claimed an emergency, but where were the lights? Murkiness engulfed her as she parked the car near the possible entry and clambered out. A light breeze ruffled her soft hair. The black nylon jacket and slim stretch pants made her nearly vanish in the night, but iridescent pink sneakers shone like a beacon.

  She squinted at the partially open gate. Before she could commit to entering, a hand reached out and seized her arm. Ryan’s quick instincts allowed him to muffle her mouth with his large rough hand before a shriek pierced the side streets.

  “My God, Kat, I thought you wanted us to keep this low key! That’s why we kept the lights off.”

  Kat tried to bite his hand, but he hastily withdrew. “Ryan, you don’t creep up on a dark night and grab somebody like that. If I had a gun I would have shot you.”

  He directed her inside. “If you had a gun you probably would have shot your foot.” He shook his head in despair as he noticed the vibrant sneakers. “Luigi’s inside. Let’s go.”

  He may be a campus cop but foremost he was a boyhood friend and he chatted with her kindly as he directed her to the stadium office beneath the bleachers. “I knew you’d want first crack at seeing the vandalism. With your expertise in handwriting analysis you invariably want to be first on the scene.”

  That served as her official excuse anyway. Ryan accused her in the past of operating more out of nosiness, which he claims he saw her exhibiting since she was five.

  “We know you usually go in for murders and this is probably just vandalism,” Ryan hedged, “but with the tournament on we thought you’d want a look-see.”

  Was that the reputation she had? Someone who psyched on murder? God help her. Chagrin flitted around her head like an energetic butterfly, but didn’t settle. Most people didn’t mind her meddling when the handwriting analysis uncovered a murderer now and then. She wouldn’t let Ryan get to her.

  Ryan’s partner, Luigi Gambini, waited for them under the lone light bulb breaking the dark in the office. His black curly head looked ominous in the shadows. Past experience proved he was kind with an honest heart and mind, but even his smile at her cheerful demeanor disappeared when she asked, “So what compelled you to drag me out of bed at 3 a.m.?”

  Luigi yawned, obviously showing no fear. They walked to the corner of the stadium where Luigi had pulled the mini indoor court car earlier. He flicked on the lights. They highlighted the blood-like swatches on the university tennis court. “Diehards play to the death,” shouted the bold graffiti.

  As campus cops on a routine night pass, Ryan and Luigi had spied the wide-open stadium gate and found the crude scrawl.

  Kat studied the words while the men stayed back and tossed a coin on who had to call Raub, of campus security.

  Daryl, the maintenance man, materialized before the coin fell, freaking even Ryan, stalwart ex-marine.

  “Jeesh, Daryl, where’d you come from?”

  “Saw the lights,” he said, pointing to the car headlights illuminating the words. “Came to check.” His wizened beanpole body twisted around to study the words from a new angle.

  “Ain’t that sumptin!”

  Daryl then eyed the coin Luigi twirled in his fingers, but the only sound he emitted was the chomping of his gum. Daryl knew when a stare worked best.

  “Okay, so we were flipping to see who calls Raub.”

  He nodded toward Katharine Everitt, though not surprised to see her. “I bet she’s ticked about this. With that there tournament half done and Ambrose kicking the bucket.”

  Luigi agreed, but he knew even with Kat’s authority she wouldn’t start ranting like some people might, and he said as much to Daryl.

  T
he old man answered, “Yeah, she’s Okay. She fixed up my missus’ arthritis with herbs, she did.”

  Ryan called Raub himself.

  Kat feared the graffiti following the tournament manager’s death might endanger ticket sales, if not the tournament itself. Anything regarding the tournament could raise hackles. It was not only one of the university’s biggest fundraisers, but the media spotlight illuminated the university as well as the tennis.

  Maybe it was just a student prank. If Kat could find something to solve the crime quickly, they would all fare better with the university president.

  “Diehards play to the death.”

  Kat studied the words. Some people never reach the potential of their handwriting, refraining from killing despite their propensities. Others handwriting draws a path right to them. Kat wondered where this writing would lead as she contemplated the paint on the court. The cursive strokes formed a warning, ugly in intent.

  The violence of the words contrasted strongly with the fluid grace of the letters painted with an artist’s brush, discarded nearby. Wicked intent in handwriting can’t convict a man, but it can cause some concern. The purpose was clear—cancel the tournament—or was it? She knew that the garland is a smooth form of connection between words that are rounded at the bottom, often referring to a caring person. Kat couldn’t discern enough from the short sample.

  Not wanting to deal with this alone, she decided to call Maddy, whom she preferred for anything involving handwriting. Maddy could perceive the nuances required in analysis even if she wasn’t certified. Kat had solved a few mysteries, and her husband was a great sounding board and even better detective, but he left the handwriting analysis to her. Though the painting reeked of student vandalism, she wanted to be prepared if it linked to the murder. While she waited she could devise a sugar coated story for Nick once he heard she’d left the house at night alone.

  The police left with a scrawny pile of clues and a promise from Raub to call the local police in the morning in case there was a tie-in with Ambrose’s death. Maddy arrived as Daryl gathered tools to repair the hinges on the gate.

  Kat asked him to find a specialized paint crew to come in immediately so the paint would be dry before play began at 10 a.m. She swept her tawny blond hair into a top-knot and proceeded to document the graffiti on film while Maddy absorbed the nature of the script from a safe seat in the bleachers.

  Studying someone’s handwriting provided fodder for character analysis and prophetic possibilities. Kat desperately needed a clue about this vandal. Though the strokes were fluid, the painter was possibly erratic and dangerous according to some of the oval stabs.

  “Nothing’s clear. With so few words, what are we going to do?” Maddy said, as she raced down a few more steps and looked again. The writing didn’t seem to send off any different signals from the new angle because Maddy just shook her head.

  Listening to Maddy’s caviling as she worked, Kat knelt on the top-most seat and swiveled the camera around to find the best angle before answering.

  “Campus cops are investigating and I’m sure Detective Burrows will get involved. We don’t have to do anything.”

  Kat didn’t deny she hoped for help finding the vandals. The press was ripe for trouble and had flashed “Jinxed” in the headlines in pre-tournament coverage. This on top of Ambrose’s death would set off fireworks. The fatigue staggered her usual athletic stride. Maddy, seeing her weariness, strode to intercept and walked with her. Daryl, his cap flipped backwards over his thinning hair, materialized nearby.

  “We goin’ to get out of here sometime tonight Ms. Everitt? I’d like to lock up for a couple of hours till the painters come.”

  She snatched her jacket off the end bleacher and headed out. “Thanks Daryl. We’re leaving.”

  He grumbled under his breath about the hour as they walked, reminding her to warn him, “Not a word of this to anyone.”

  Crotchety, but loyal, he nodded.

  THE FOLLOWING DAY jumpstarted with a call from her boss, who was rounding up reinforcements. The story of Ed Ambrose’s death in unusual circumstances had hit the paper and Tom needed someone to help man the phones until he could gather some volunteers. Though the death was reported earlier they were able to withhold the name until next of kin were notified. The lazy-day atmosphere of yesterday dissolved. Frantic fans called wanting to know if the campus was safe, and still open for the tournament. The tournament phone line was overloaded and the overflow hit the university public relations number. Although the death had not been dubbed murder, the situation was strange enough to warrant speculation on the reporters’ part, and concern on the readers’, many of whom held tickets to the tournament and wanted to know if they could still come.

  The public relations office reflected the chaos. Phones rang incessantly, fingernails clicked on keyboards, and volunteers shouted back and forth as they attempted to keep up with ticket information. Repeatedly they offered the tournament management phone number. Fellow employees wandered into the office to learn the latest information.

  Kat helped and constantly checked with John, the manager’s assistant, to keep up to date. Ironically, tickets were selling faster now than on opening day. Ed Ambrose would have been thrilled. To complicate the bedlam, Kat’s cell phone kept ringing. Maddy wouldn’t leave her alone. Apparently the police were harassing Ted about his relationship with Ambrose. Maddy, frantic, in turn harassed her friend.

  Later, Kat traversed the campus, to check that crowds were under control, classes went uninterrupted, and erstwhile fans didn’t attempt parking on the grass. She yawned the whole time. Three hours of sleep didn’t guarantee enthusiasm.

  A crowd surrounding a shouting match drew her attention. Before she could respond, Ryan and Luigi, who had pulled extra day duty because of the tournament, dispersed the gathering and solved the problem between two students. Kat followed them to the police car. Too much had intervened for her to find them earlier. Before her stint in the office she’d checked that the painted court message was gone but no one was around.

  “What’s happening with the vandalism investigation, guys?”

  Luigi harrumphed but provided the latest report. They were interviewing anyone with a key, anyone who might have a grudge about not having a key, and anyone who would talk.

  Ryan sidetracked. “Yeah, when we aren’t filling the local cop’s requests for information on the murder victim.

  Kat veered back to the vandalism. “But if they had a key, they wouldn’t have needed to break in!”

  “It’s called elimination, Kat. Even you know that.”

  “Thanks Ryan.” Kat tried to curtsey in mock salute but her Stuart Weitzman pump fell off. The “Snipper” was her favorite slip on and was a steal at 40 percent off, but it lacked the deference she was seeking to portray.

  “So what did you find out?”

  Ryan settled into the front seat. “We found out that practically everyone has a key. It ought to be a cinch to find the two guys who didn’t. We can arrest them on the spot.”

  Knowing sarcasm on the edge of despair, Kat backed away from the subject but moved on to the more serious concern—did they know any more about the death of Ed? Had Detective Burrows shared any insights, findings, prognostications?

  Mostly, they had nothing to share. Kat’s list of suspects was more complete than the names he had, but he warned her to stay out of the investigation. It was probably the only thing he and Burrows agreed on, though Kat didn’t tell him so.

  She walked away and flashed her badge to the attendant, a girl with day-glo orange hair, and entered the tournament area. She turned to Maddy and Ted in one of the lower courts. Maddy’s skimpy white tennis gear was a shocking change from the woman’s usual garrulous caftans. Maddy always flowed on an ethereal wave of lush colors and numerous billows. Kat stopped to watch enjoying the obvious camaraderie and feeble attempts of her non-athletic friend. She wondered what devious methods Maddy had used to prompt Ted to practice wit
h her during the tournament. Since he wasn’t scheduled to play until tomorrow, she surmised he would fit in a rigorous practice session later in the day.

  After a few minutes, it was obvious Ted needed different tactics to impress on Maddy the possibilities of the game. Ted seemed delighted in Maddy’s disarming moves at first, but was determined to turn this into an earnest attempt at tennis education. To him, tennis was serious, as well as fun, challenging and intriguing. He hoped to convince Maddy of any of those. As they moved around the court, he decided to appeal to her mental side.

  “Tennis is a game with less than 30 percent of the time dedicated to actual mechanics of hitting the ball,” he explained. Laughing, he added, “Even you can handle the physical part with those percentages.” Maddy ignored the jibe and tried to wow him with her play, concentrating as he spoke. He adjusted her stance, helped her take practice swings with the racquet, and plied her with the psychology of tennis.

  Kat laughed to see those skimpy white shorts cause him havoc.

  “Players who use psychological techniques can control the playing field while their opponents are stuck trying to control their racquets,” Ted said.

  Maddy appeared to enjoy the freedom of the deep smooth swing he’d just demonstrated, but her pinched eyebrows showed absorption in what he was saying. Kat knew that for Maddy, psychology was more appealing than sweat and her friend would give it a try. Even Kat found it difficult to believe that the use of imagery was so strong a factor that it literally prepared ones muscles for the actual activity of play.

  Kat watched while revising notes from the information she’d gleaned around campus. Nothing struck her as crucial. She needed to find some handwriting samples and start eliminating suspects. She lingered a little longer to enjoy the byplay.

  Ted hit Maddy some easy ground strokes and cautioned her to first “see” where it would land before she approached the ball. The rising star of tennis bit her lip in concentration and swung. The ball lopped up and over the net and past the baseline. She jumped up and down squealing with joy. “It worked, it worked!”