Game, Set, Murder

by Judith Mehl

  Since the ball was obviously out, Ted picked up the ball and asked. “Just out of curiosity, how do you figure that worked?”

  “It went over the net! It went over the net just like I pictured it!”

  Kat gave him a lot of credit. The man squashed a laugh and politely suggested. “Okay, now you know how it works. Maybe you could picture it landing a little more precisely, like within bounds.”

  Ted bestowed praise on her every shot. As Kat watched his kindness and consideration in dealing with Maddy, who had not played tennis before and lacked the fine-tuned responses of an experienced athlete, she reassessed her opinion of him. From the reports she had prior to the tournament about his altercation with the manager, she figured him for an arrogant egotist. If so, he definitely had a gentle, humble side.

  When Maddy missed, he offered soothing advice. “Immediately replace the image of a missed or poor shot with the one you wished you’d made. This leaves only the positive imprint on the brain, providing an edge. And above all, focus on one point at a time.”

  Maddy looked engrossed in the effort, while Ted obviously welcomed the opportunity to ogle her bare legs swing around the court.

  Kat knew her friend could do worse if she fell for this guy, but life with a vagabond carried pitfalls.

  Chapter 7

  Low on loops? No adornment? Not to worry. It signifies a straightforward person; a direct to the point approach. Bare facts, but truth.

  “Handwriting Analysis” by P. Scott Hollander

  Matthew Hightower had been popping antacids since he argued with Ed Ambrose Sunday afternoon following the tournament reception. He’d waited until the man returned to his office before confronting him. God, could it really have been just a few days ago? He didn’t know whom to confide in, and he was worried sick about Marie. He had found the petite and somewhat shy sophomore crying in the hall outside Ambrose’s office late the Friday before. Everyone else had gone home and she was too hysterical to do anything but huddle on the floor against the wall.

  Matthew, shy himself, knew Marie from one of his classes and as awkward as he was around weeping women, attempted to calm her down and discover the cause of her tears. He’d remained single over the years for many reasons, but bashfulness and inability to deal with the emotions of women remained at the top of the list. He was the last person who should be helping the distraught teenager, and would have laughed at the situation if she hadn’t looked so pathetic.

  Gathering up her purse and book bag, Marie made another attempt to wipe away the tears with her soaked tissue. He had coaxed her from panic-stricken to a level of coherency and now she looked to him for direction. She finally followed him back to his office, but he was careful to leave the door wide open. While pondering what to do next, the professor offered her a can of soda from the small refrigerator.

  Marie’s sobbing had settled down to intermittent hiccups. So far he’d only gleaned that she hadn’t done anything. She’d repeated it over and over. Marie was a beautiful girl who had not yet developed the poise to handle situations her beauty might cause. He had her in class himself during the spring semester and she was bright in mind and vibrant in style when she was engrossed in what she was doing and not being made self-conscious. Today she acted neither bright nor enterprising. However, she finally confessed that Ambrose, and not some young gland-heavy teenager, was at the root of her concern.

  Hightower’s glasses hung loosely off his ears and down his nose—a limp concession to fading vision. They couldn’t hide his frown, but he made a visible effort to erase it when he saw the hiccups reverting to sobs as Marie reacted to his disapproval. He quickly assured her she’d done nothing wrong—though, indeed, he had no clue what she’d done at all. He realized he’d learn little if he didn’t soothe her fears.

  He recommended she seek counseling, someone more qualified than he to discuss her problem, but he also didn’t want to shove her out into the world uncaring, before she was ready to be on her own. She twirled her hair incessantly around her finger, while he roamed the room, looking for inspiration.

  Eventually the story came tumbling out, from Ambrose’s initial flirting, to the later, more blatant, attempts to seduce her. When seduction and coercion failed, Ambrose became threatening.

  “He said he was great friends with Professor Tibbs. I have him for my exercise training class,” she explained as she took tiny sips of the soda. “Mr. Ambrose claimed Professor Tibbs would fail me if I didn’t cooperate with him.” She hiccupped again, but continued her story. She seemed calmer once she’d begun.

  “He always used ‘cooperate’ but I knew what he meant.” She looked away in derision, whether at herself or Ambrose, wasn’t clear.

  Matthew marveled at the naiveté of the young girl. Did they still believe men had so much power? He thought most of them had gone the way of N.O.W. long ago, joining the ranks of the liberal feminists who knew to fight for their rights. But she was a sophomore, from the ripe farmland of New York, and not the big city. He finally convinced her to talk to a counselor. A counselor would help her work through her self-hate and may teach her how to handle such threats like Ambrose’s supposed power over Professor Tibbs. He doubted very much there was any, but advised that the counselor would be able to help her deal with the situation. Marie agreed to schedule a meeting first thing in the morning. They left together, Matthew walking her to the dorm where she met up with friends who could console and sympathize much better than he.

  As he headed home, he prided himself on surviving the nightmare. Settling into the small but cozy study in his apartment just three blocks from campus, he’d toasted himself with a cognac to accompany the warm glow he felt for helping the student develop self-confidence and the conviction that she could now stand up to an adult when it was needed. He agonized what to do about Ambrose as he fell asleep.

  LITTLE DID HE know then that the nightmare had just begun. By noon Tuesday he’d heard the news about Ambrose and he hadn’t yet reported Marie’s incident with Ambrose to anyone. He’d only approached the man himself. Now he was dead. Rumor had it that he was killed, though details remained thin.

  Maybe it was best that he hadn’t said anything, but he feared people had heard him arguing with the letch Sunday afternoon, apparently shortly before his death. So now the concern was not only what to do about Marie, but about protecting himself. Could he somehow steer the authorities away from himself as the killer, without implicating Marie? He plotted half the night what and how much to reveal about his argument with Ambrose and the threats it entailed. He survived the day, but now two nights in a row, the liquor provided his lullaby.

  Hightower managed again to kill the high-pitched beeping sound without cracking open an eyelid. He’d done it often enough, but usually just once a day. This time he kept hitting the snooze alarm because he didn’t want to face the overwhelming questions left hanging last night as he attempted to drown his sorrows.

  Did Marie seek counseling, or did she find Ambrose that night seeking revenge? Under a tree in the woods seemed an unlikely location for a confrontation. Or had her tale of seduction been twisted slightly to hide her part? As a seduction scene it didn’t seem so bad. Not that he’d had much experience with that.

  He rolled out of bed, the litany of problems still playing out in his head as he plunged under the spray of steaming water. He’d confronted Ambrose too appalled by his unethical, slimy behavior. At the time it seemed the right thing to do. Why, when he so seldom got involved in this sort of thing did he have to step into the middle of a minefield, causing possible disaster for himself? He only had nine months to go before retirement—practically packed and ready to leave. Not that he hated his job, but he’d had enough. Now what should he do? He couldn’t empty the scene with the tournament manager from his mind. Little pieces kept filtering in as he prepared for his day.

  Mental pictures of that afternoon assaulted him. Ambrose not only worked in a filthy, cluttered mess, the room matched his sq
ualid mind. He showed no remorse and admitted to toying with Marie. Matthew disliked his attitude even less than his behavior and marched out, determined to relate the man’s behavior to university officials. Now his concern was more self-centered. His own reputation, possibly his life, was at stake. He recalled seeing at least one person in the hallway when he fumed out of Ambrose’s office. So who had seen him that day? How much had they heard? Should he report the incident to the police?

  And what to do about Marie?

  He decided to face the rumors by attending morning coffee in the faculty and staff dining room. He’d see if anyone was connecting him to the manager’s death. Maybe with luck, he’d hear that Ambrose died of natural causes.

  No one seemed to notice the tall, lean man as he strolled into the dining room. But there sure was a buzz of conversation at every table—more so than the normal sleepy lull between classes at this time of day. He realized luck wasn’t with him as he poured his first cup of regular and added mounds of sugar to kick his brain into gear. The buzzing had stopped. They were all looking his way.

  Even the obsequious Rita Mae Dobbs lost her place in the well-worn book of poetry by Elizabeth Barrett Browning as she glanced over her wire-rimmed glasses at Matthew. She sat sequestered at her own table, commandeered over the last 45 years, where she sipped tea endlessly between classes, usually oblivious to her surroundings. But not this morning.

  His normal milquetoast nature provided spice to the rumors. What could Ambrose have said or done to spur Matthew from his complacency? Only something horrible and beyond imagination. Those who heard the shouting match were as clueless as the rest. The overheard language had been ripe with obscenities and feeling but short on meaning.

  They glanced at him now, though most were huddled over their coffee, mugs cupped in both hands as if peering into the bottom required concentration. They knew about the argument. What else did they know? Worse, what did they suspect?

  Feeling like a condemned man, he sat at the end of the large table. These people had been his friends for years. They wouldn’t turn on him, and just maybe they could give him useful advice. He’d have to be careful not to reveal Marie’s name. It was only fair to protect her as much as possible. The spoon clattered to the table and the syrupy coffee kicked in after the first sip. He slowly raised his eyes to meet those looking his way and awaited the first question. He wondered who would pose it.

  Off to the right, a close friend, Dr. Bruce Kobrakov, chair of the media communications department, continued an earlier conversation, speaking vociferously in favor of his new pet program. His efforts drew the attention of the crowd, diminishing the focus on Matthew Hightower. Kobrakov, in his standard ratty jacket and jeans, jumped up, waving his arms, and speaking loudly. Even his rotund belly appeared boisterous as it bounced up and down in tune with his words.

  Kobrakov’s proponents nodded agreeably, but noncommittally. They were listing to the left, all trying to hear any tidbit that might come from Matthew.

  Even Kobrakov appeared anxious to hear his friend’s version of the incident and willingly dropped the discussion to upgrade with more high-tech multimedia equipment. He paused to fill his coffee cup from the dispenser along the wall, giving Matthew a chance to talk.

  Matthew, his shadow beard especially prominent today, smiled at him as he passed by, and finally spoke. He had hoped that someone would just plunge in. Maybe they were more polite than he thought.

  “So, does anyone want to hear about my argument with Ed Ambrose Sunday?” All coughing and shifting stopped instantly. Heads turned his way. They nodded simultaneously, no one willing to voice the request out loud.

  Matthew swirled his fingers in a half circle as he spoke, slowly releasing some of the pent-up energy he kept buried under his mellow manner. “The fight was a humdinger, and I’m still angry with him, but I didn’t kill him.”

  He spoke softly, but all could hear. Any other sounds in the room had ceased. He slugged down more coffee, then calmly told the story of Ambrose’s seduction, coercion, and anger at a quiet sophomore who only wanted to stay in school and not flunk out of an important class.

  Someone silently took his coffee cup and refilled it, disdaining the ton of sugar and opting to include a reasonable teaspoon. No one wanted to interrupt the long awaited tale.

  Matthew could see Kat’s friend, Simon Santora, eagerly listening. Simon voiced his support without hesitation, though Matthew knew he was anxious to dangle the juicy morsel in front of Kat, who hadn’t made it to morning coffee today because of the tournament. Hightower’s story prompted dark thoughts of Ambrose, and he wondered if they weren’t all jumping too hastily to the conclusion that Ambrose was killed because he was a mean, spiteful man. Maybe the killer had struck randomly, and might again.

  When he voiced his concerns, Sloan, daintily sipping her coffee, nodded, and then spoke. “The police sure are taking their time telling us if he was, indeed, killed. But we want to know if we’re safe. If we should be cowering in our homes, or if we should be offering protection for the students. That PR guy, Edberg, keeps waiting for something definitive from the police before announcing anything. What should we do?”

  Mumbling and grumbling rose in intensity as others pondered the concern. Charlene from the physics department warned everyone to calm down, her soothing demeanor at such odds with her flamboyant appearance that even the crusty professors tended to listen. Her hand fluttered absently as she spoke, the slender fingers ending in blood-red talons. Her beauty was such that when those fingers beckoned, men didn’t see the danger. Today, her long dark hair flowed in a model’s artful disarray, but she was one of the most down-to-earth supporters of the university and served it well now as she served up balm for the troubled waters.

  She scribbled a quick note—concise and to the point. No curls and artifice here. She saved that for her outward appearance. Her eternal sidekick, Sam Leighton, who was sitting next to her, grabbed it and read “Help out!” He rose from the table, and added his husky but composed voice to still the melee. His round shiny face, like the doughboy’s, revealed his enjoyment in life and his ability to absorb other’s woes without reflecting them back on the giver. When he spoke people couldn’t help but turn more cheerful. In this case though, they wondered if they should be.

  LATER THAT EVENING, G. L., Nick, and Kat shared dinner, laughter and camaraderie at a Mexican restaurant outside town that served up simple fare with quiet atmosphere. After ordering, Nick recalled, “Oh Kat, your dad phoned while you were out.”

  “Did he want me to call him back?”

  “No, but it probably wouldn’t hurt. You know how your dad is.”

  G. L. swooped up a loose piece of taco and salsa and smiled. ”Remember when I first thought that Artie the Alligator was a nickname for your dad? I envisioned a hit man or a consigliore, at least a member of the Florida mob.” Swallowing more salsa, he laughed. “I’d just formed a partnership with Nick and couldn’t figure out how to break loose without offending anyone. I sweated for a week over that one before I finally confessed to Nick.”

  Nick chuckled along with him. “I’m not sure it helped to explain that Artee was an alligator, not a hit man,” G. L. continued. Kat feigned offense. She thought it was as funny as they did, but family loyalty always made her defend her father at first recanting, only to break down later with the others. The recollection only brought slight laughter tonight as she fiddled with her tacos and sipped her soft drink absentmindedly.

  “What’s tangling you up? Can we help?” G. L. offered.

  “I’m just mentally reviewing my meager list of suspects. I’m not fixed on any of them as the killer. With lack of input from Detective Burrows, I’m still not sure if Ed Ambrose was murdered.”

  “Then why bother yourself about it,” Nick asked while tackling his plate of enchiladas.

  Kat did a double eyebrow raise that he always admired but could never duplicate. It meant, “How could you ask such a stupid question?!�
� Even G. L. knew it well and stayed out of the line of fire.

  Eventually G. L. hazarded a question. “Do you want to review the list with us? We might not know all of your suspects, but talking out loud sometimes helps you.”

  Kat thanked him for his kindness, gave Nick a shrug that said, ‘Why couldn’t you be so considerate?’ and began. “Well, there’s the obvious contender, Ted Wright, the golden boy of the tournament who had a grudge against the dead manager. Then there’s Professor Hightower. His handwriting is one of the most straight-forward I’ve analyzed and he’s one of the nicest men around, but I heard him arguing with Ed just before he died. Of course, there’s Lauri Carmichael, his semi-fiancé or lover, recently scorned, and the scowling David Nettle, who apparently had a long-held rancor. That only leaves just about every tennis player he ever dealt with because he was a mean-spirited SOB.”

  G. L. had been nodding and eating throughout but jerked his head upright. “That simplifies things doesn’t it?”

  Realizing how difficult the task appeared, Kat shook her head ruefully. “Well, you asked.”

  Nick pointed his fork at his friend. “Now you know why I didn’t.”

  Chapter 8

  A moderately inclined rightward slant reveals an affectionate, spontaneous, and friendly person, one whose impulsiveness might lead to questionable relationships.

  “Handwriting Analysis: Putting it to Work for You” by Andrea McNichol

  Maddy sat cross-legged on the bed in her black lace teddy, not realizing the charming picture she made as she licked her lips in glee. Ted watched in amazement as she literally beat the pants off him in a hot game of Parcheesi. She rolled the dice so enthusiastically one went flying off the bed. He admired her tightly covered rear end as she bent over the side to scoop the dice off the carpeting. She was winning but he was having all the fun as far as he could see. Her laughter ricocheted off his mind while she rested her head in his lap and waited for him to make his move. His thoughts were far from the yellow pawn he was skipping over the board and more on the tawny highlights in her hair as it tickled across his belly.