Now what? For sure, there were other handwriting analysts to be had, and with the resources of the Naples P.D. at his disposal, Rossi could undoubtedly find an expert graphologist somewhere. Providing, of course, he could be convinced to do so. If I suggested it, he’d probably think I was interfering again.
Well, I was... I sighed and slid the papers out of the envelope.
Naomi had told me about the writing differences between a truth-teller and a liar. What had she said? Think. Think.
Not knowing where to start, I flipped through the sheets. Rossi had had a busy afternoon. He’d gotten statements from Mike and Tony. And even one from Marilyn Stahlman. With my testimony and Tom’s that made eleven in all.
I put the statements from the two painters and Tom’s and mine back into the envelope—that left seven samples to consider.
Outside a dog’s bark echoed in the quiet night. I smiled a little, thinking of Charlotte. Knowing something was wrong this morning, the tiny ball of fluff had tried to alert the household. I’d probably surprised her popping out of the sliders as I’d done. I stared past the pools of lamplight into the shadows. Something bothered me, but I couldn’t put a finger on what it might be.
The dog barked again. Maybe he’d found a squirrel or a mouse to chase, or a passing car. Charlotte had been barking for James. Or Eileen. Not for me. Or the painters. Or Tom.
Tom. I bolted upright on the couch. He’d met me outside of 590 this morning. I’d never asked if he’d strolled around the property before I arrived. If he had, he might have encountered Kay in the bikini that had so entranced him the other day...but he hadn’t said a word about seeing her. Not a word. Still, that didn’t mean he hadn’t.
Slowly, reluctantly, I removed his statement from the envelope and added it to the others.
Most familiar with Mike’s writing, I’d begin with his. Wiping my damp palms on my T-shirt, I held his page under the lamplight, conscious suddenly of the danger that a graphology novice like me could falsely interpret what I saw—or believed I saw.
The only alternative was not to even try, and that would yield nothing. So I took a deep breath and plunged into what Mike had written. Despite the tension beading on my forehead, I exhaled a long, relieved sigh when I finished reading his report. He hadn’t changed a bit since Naomi examined his prison letters. His signature was as flamboyant as ever, full of self-important swirls and flourishes, the rest of his writing small and crabbed. And there in a downstroke was the felon’s claw again. Yup, Mike would lie like a rug and embezzle his grandmother out of food stamps, but I saw no signs of violence in his hand. No clubbed t bars, no dots looking like arrows over the i’s, no stabbed ovals. He was a con man, not a killer.
I let the paper drop to my lap. Naomi’s input had colored my thinking and skewed my observations. What about the other statements, the handwriting she hadn’t seen?
Without her help, I had to figure out what these loops and lines and squiggles meant over and above what they actually said. I stared at the sheaf of papers. No way could I decipher their secrets. I didn’t have the knowledge and no one and nothing to turn to for help. Not tonight anyway. And that was all the time I had. The statements were part of a police investigation. Rossi would be sure to look for them when he returned. If I were going to accomplish anything, it had to be now, but I had nothing to work with. Not a single tool.
And then, in a rush of adrenaline, I remembered. The book Naomi had given me. Of course! I’d put it in the guest room bookcase and then forgotten about it. Egads.
I leaped up and ran to the guest room. The bookcase was mostly filled with design texts I’d saved from BU, trade magazines and some glossy coffee table volumes. Where was it? Ah, there. Nestled between the iconic Ralph Lauren Homes and Mario Buattas’s Fifty Years of American Interior Decoration lay M. N. Bunker’s The Science of Determining Personality by Graphoanalysis. Rossi would no doubt scoff at the word science, but I grabbed the book, a legal pad and pen, and hurried back to the living room.
Sitting on the sofa, I carefully compared each witness sample—one word, one line, one page at a time—with examples from Bunker’s book. I was looking for signs of aberrant behavior and trying hard not to rush to judgment, or to be inventive and see what simply wasn’t there to be seen.
I began with the men’s handwriting, and found a lot of quirky stuff: tiny, uptight printing indicating anxiety; the left-hand slant of an introvert; the retraced upper loops of a cautious perfectionist; words with the unreadable middle zones that signaled unhappiness; and the high-flying t bars of a dreamer. In short, many fascinating traits, but nothing that revealed the potential for murder.
Hmm. Perhaps I wasn’t concentrating on the right strokes. Since Kay’s death appeared to be a crime of passion, maybe I should concentrate on the lower loops, the erogenous zone Naomi had called them.
I picked up a page. Stew’s y’s and g’s swooped down then looped vigorously up to the base line. No surprise at seeing his healthy libido. James wasn’t outdone in that department either. That was a bit of a surprise, though it shouldn’t have been. After all, he’d been about to embark on his third trip down the aisle. Tony’s y’s and g’s were simply straight lines. Well, he did live with his mother, so not much of a sex life there. Tom and Mike’s looked normal too, nothing deviant or weird that I could see.
Now for the women. While I didn’t think a woman had killed Kay, on the theory that you never know until you know, I separated out their statements from the men’s and took a good, hard look at their erogenous zones. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. And then I got to Eileen’s.
Omigod. Who would have believed it? The paper slid out of my hands and fluttered to the floor.
“Deva, what are you doing?”
His voice startled me so, I screamed. When my heartbeat went back to something less South American, I said, “Rossi, for Pete’s sake. Why did you sneak in like that?”
“I didn’t sneak in. I was trying to be quiet. I thought you might be asleep.” He pointed to the papers scattered around me. “Are those what I think they are?”
Before I could answer, he stooped and picked up Eileen’s statement, then began collecting the others.
“Rossi, I’ve just discovered something.”
“No. I’ve just discovered something. You’re interfering again.”
“But this is important. It might have a bearing on the case.”
He stuffed the papers into the envelope and placed it on the desk. “Let’s turn in. We’ve both had a long day.”
“But something’s there in Eileen’s handwriting.”
“Deva, I appreciate your attempt to help. My right hand to God. But are you a skilled graphologist?”
“No, but—”
“It takes years to develop that skill. Years. Are you listening?”
I nodded.
“So not to be unkind but whatever you found is an amateur’s insight, not a professional’s. Got that?”
Another nod.
“I believe in graphology,” he said. I tried to speak, but he held up a palm for silence. “The chief believes in graphology. And if he so decides, these writing samples may...may...be faxed to Miami to a professional analyst. Got that?”
When I didn’t answer, he added, “No pun intended, but are we on the same page here?”
I treated him to a third nod, but somewhat annoyed by his lack of confidence in me, I didn’t bother to tell him Eileen’s handwriting showed that she was possibly the sexiest woman in Naples.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Rossi left for work the next morning without saying goodbye. I was asleep, but for him to leave without kissing me awake meant last night’s mini argument still rankled. Maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe he didn’t understand that my interference in the Kay Hawkins case—all right I’m admitting it—was an act of love. I g
uess he just saw it as the act of a non-professional pretending to be a pro.
Anyway, needing a morale boost, I dressed to kill in the black halter dress I usually reserved for dinner dates and sexy high-heeled sandals that really did kill. But that was all right. I planned to eat sitting down. To keep the look edgy, I carried a shocking-pink nylon tote.
My one new wardrobe purchase of the season, the mustard-yellow shift, hadn’t survived the chlorine swim. Clothes shopping was definitely in my immediate future, but not today. Today I had house calls to make. A new client wanted me to take a look at what she called her blah family room. Blah rooms were mother’s milk to me, but there were various shades of blah, and it would be interesting to see exactly how blah this one was. Actually, the worse the room, the more it needed my input. At least I was good at my job if not, in Rossi’s view, at graphology.
After checking in with Lee and learning that everything was cool at the shop, I made Whiskey Lane my first call of the day.
With two clients in mourning, I didn’t know what to expect when I arrived at the Lane, but everything seemed normal enough. Tom’s vehicles clogged the driveways of both 590 and 595. Since no one could drive in or out of the garages, I assumed Stew and James had already left. Just as well.
I parked on the Stahlman drive behind Tom’s SUV. Not wanting to bother the painters, I strolled around back to the kitchen entrance and rang the bell. No one answered, not even after several tries. Strange. Busy in the front rooms, the painters couldn’t hear the bell over their blaring radios and probably wouldn’t answer if they did. But where was Eileen?
After another futile attempt, I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered through the glass-paneled door at a kitchen long overdue for a revamp—a project I had a feeling was currently low on James’s bucket list.
Though no one was moving around in the kitchen, a circular heating coil on the vintage electric stove glowed as red as a traffic light. Unattended, without a single pan on its top, the stove was a disaster in the making.
Without bothering with the bell, I grasped the door handle. To my relief, the door wasn’t locked. I hurried in and turned off the burner. What on earth...? The refrigerator door gaped open. I slammed it shut. Food littered the countertops: flour and sugar, eggs, milk and spices were scattered everywhere.
A sudden soft moan scared me. I whirled around to face it, and there was Eileen, lying spread-eagled on the breakfast nook bench, her uniform skirt hiked to her thighs, her legs and mouth open wide.
Good heavens, what was wrong? I hurried across the room and bent over her. As I did, my foot struck something hard and sent it spinning. Like an aimless soccer ball, an empty Dewars scotch bottle rolled around under the nook before hitting the wall and coming to rest with a thump.
Eileen didn’t hear a sound. She lay without moving, snoring softly and exhaling ripe, boozy breaths. No need to bend in any closer.
I was glad James wasn’t home. He didn’t need this on top of yesterday’s tragedy. But what did Eileen need? Something obviously. According to her handwriting, I think I knew what that might be, but as Rossi had correctly pointed out, I was no graphology whiz.
What I could do well was make coffee. A brew pot sat on one of the littered countertops, its carafe empty. I tossed the basketful of soggy grounds in the trash and foraged in the pantry closet for a fresh supply. The hunt turned up only whole beans. Figured. With some difficulty I located the grinder, threw in a handful of Kona’s Finest, and turned it on, hoping the loud pulsing would awaken Eileen. But she snored on, oblivious.
Well, maybe the aroma of brewing coffee would do it.
Nope.
Maybe actually drinking some would help. I carried a mug of strong black brew over to the breakfast nook and placed it on a corner of the tabletop out of harm’s reach.
If I couldn’t rouse her soon, I’d have to call 9-1-1. She might need to have her stomach pumped.
I leaned over her...phew...and shook her by the arm. She moaned in protest. I patted her cheeks and called her name, trying to coax her out of her stupor. In a way, I hated to. She’d tried to escape from some painful reality, and here I was insisting she return to it.
Poor thing. Life could be so damned difficult, but bottom line, it wasn’t five o’clock anywhere in Eileen’s world. She couldn’t stay like this. The painters might barge in at any moment and see her lying there drunk, her skirt flying at high mast. Worse, no telling when James would be home expecting a lovely little lunch.
“Come on, Eileen. Come on. Wake up now.”
She grunted and attempted to roll onto her side. I grabbed her shoulder and shook it. “No, you can’t do that. You’re not in bed. You’ll fall off.”
One of her eyes slit open.
Okay, a good sign.
It closed.
I patted her cheeks.
“No,” she moaned. “No.”
“Eileen, you have to wake up. Come on, open your eyes. I made some coffee for you. It’ll make you feel better.”
“Coffee? Nooo. Jimmy. Thash what I want. Jimmy.”
Jimmy? Omigod. So her handwriting sample hadn’t spoken with forked tongue after all.
“I want Jimmy.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, pretending not to understand her meaning, “but Mr. Stahlman isn’t here right now.”
Her eyes snapped open. Though slightly bloodshot, they were a gorgeous lapis lazuli blue. Funny, before now I’d never noticed how beautiful they were.
“Hesh never here. Not for me.” Hic.
Lowering her legs off the bench she tried, and failed, to sit up. I sat next to her, put an arm around her shoulder and together we pulled her torso into an upright position. But not for long. Like a willow in the wind, she swayed several times then, abandoning the struggle, fell forward onto the tabletop, her head lolling on her arms.
One more try, and if that didn’t work, I’d call for help. I shook her. Her arms slid back and forth on the polished wood, taking her head with them, but she didn’t awaken.
I leaned over and whispered in her ear. Hissed really. “Eileen, listen up, girlfriend. We’ve got to get you out of here and into bed.”
Not a muscle quivered.
In desperation, I went for the jugular, emotionally speaking. “If you don’t wake up, I’ll call an ambulance.”
An eyelid fluttered.
“It’ll come roaring down the street with the sirens blazing and haul you out of here on a stretcher. Is that what you want?”
Both eyes opened.
To keep them open, I upped the ante. “Think of what Jimmy will say then.”
She lifted her head and ran both hands through her hair. A bemused expression flitted across her face as if she were surprised she still had a head. Peeking at me from the corner of one bloodshot lapis-blue eye, she said, “He woulden give a shit.”
I nearly fell out of the breakfast nook. “Eileen, what are you saying? You’re his most devoted...ah...employee.”
“Thash the problem.” She clutched at her left breast. “Ish this fuckin’ uniform. I look like a refrigerator in it.”
Who could argue with logic like that?
“He doshunt see me as a...hic...woman.”
“Be that as it may, you don’t want him to see you as a lush, do you?”
“Yesh.” She beamed her Dewars breath my way. I tried not to inhale. “At leasht he’ll know I’ve got feelingshs.” She jabbed a finger on the tabletop. “Feelingsh.”
“Eileen, I don’t know what’s bothering you, but whatever it is, you need to sleep it off. If Mr. Stahlman comes home, I’ll tell him you’re ill and went to bed. Okay? That way, he’ll never know about this. But first you have to get off the bench.”
She shook her head. “No I don’t. I’ll be out of here shoon enough.”
&nbs
p; “What does that mean?”
No answer. Her head was back on the table.
Okay, she hadn’t vomited and she had been conscious, however briefly. Two pluses. I glanced down at her. Her thick dark hair, freed from its bun, lay spread across her arms like glossy black silk.
Between the bun and the uniform, Eileen clearly hadn’t been able to shine.
I heaved a sigh. We were both working girls, and my heart went out to her. I couldn’t just leave her where she was. Working girls in distress needed a helping hand from time to time. So my options were to call 9-1-1, or less drastically, to enlist the aid of one of the painters in getting her into bed.
While I stood there trying to decide what to do, the back door opened.
Oh, no.
“Well this is a first. A messy kitchen.” Marilyn, a tall tanned goddess in sawed-off jeans and shit-kickers, strode into the kitchen as if she owned it. Well in a way, I guess she still did.
We nodded at each other, wary as two feral cats. Catching sight of Eileen, she gasped. “Omigod. What happened to her?” She hurried across the room and bent over Eileen’s sleeping form. Straightening up fast, she said, “She’s drunk.”
“My conclusion exactly.”
A moment of stunned silence, then Marilyn threw her head back and laughed, a deep, full-throated belly laugh.
“Glad you think it’s funny,” I said with a sniff.
“It’s not funny. It’s a riot. Good for her. High time she broke out of her shell. Waiting on James hand and foot. Yes-siring and no-siring him, and all the while madly in love with him.”
Ah. “You’re sure?”
“I lived here, remember? She’d die before admitting it but—”
“Actually she just did admit it.”
“In vino veritas.” Marilyn shrugged. “That coffee I smell?”
I nodded. “Help yourself.”
She shot me an ironic glance and without any fumbling opened the cabinet containing the mugs.
The Design Is Murder (Murders By Design) Page 18