No one sat with us at lunch the next day. Our friendship grew from there, but his tact never did.
He pulled me into a corner and whispered as Bobby started examining the cotton swabs. “I’ve been thinking about that green crayon, the one that disappeared from Bobby’s coloring area last week.”
“Finally decided to help him ‘locate’ it?” I asked.
“Of course not. It’s gone, it’s not coming back. Best he learn about irrevocable loss now than through a dead dog or grandparent. This is about the case.”
“The murder? You can’t possibly think—”
He cut me off with a wave of his hand and turned his attentions back to Bobby, who was sitting and swiveling on my red leather stool. “Bobby, tell me about the day your green crayon went missing.”
“I don’t know, the teacher told us to draw something pretty. I was drawing the moon.”
“And you were using the green to color the grass illuminated by the moon?” Sherlock clarified.
Bobby shook his head. “I was coloring the moon green.”
“That’s absurd. The moon isn’t green. It may look red or orange at moonrise, but never green. Bobby, go home tonight and read about how photons scatter through the Earth’s atmosphere. I want a five hundred-word essay on my desk in two days.”
Bobby nodded, tears threatening.
“Sherlock!” I hissed. “The boy is ten. Bobby, you don’t have to write that essay. And you can color the moon any color you wish.”
“But Mr. Holmes just said—”
“Mr. Holmes was only allowed to color the moon white when he was little, and he’s jealous that you can be creative. Now. Let’s move on.”
Sherlock sighed and continued, looking pained. “So you were coloring the moon green. And your crayon vanished. Did you ask Mrs. Haskill for a new one?”
“No,” sniffed Bobby. “Besides, Mrs. Haskill wasn’t the teacher that day.”
“What?” asked Sherlock, tense. “Who was the teacher, then?”
“Some guy. I don’t know. A substitute. Mrs. Haskill was sick, or something.”
“This substitute. Do you remember his name? Do you remember what he looked like?”
Bobby could feel Sherlock’s urgency and sat up straighter on the stool. I could see his little mind trying to race through the details of that oh-so-important art class. “His name was…Mr.…Fallwith. Or something like that. And I don’t…I don’t remember his face. I was focusing on my…on my moon.”
• • •
“Roger Fellworth.” Sherlock greeted me at the door of his apartment with those two words. He had invited me over for dinner, which usually consisted of food from one of the three restaurants in town that delivered. Tonight was Greek-style pepperoni pizza, and the distinct smell of oily cheese hit me in the nostrils as I entered. “Roger Fellworth is the name of the substitute teacher. He was subbing in for Rita Haskill as a trial on the day of Bobby’s missing crayon, and hasn’t been to the school since. I’d like for you to go and talk to him.”
“Me?” I asked, startled, about to tuck into a slice. “Why don’t you go talk to him?”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to chance him recognizing my voice.”
“And why would he recognize your voice?”
“I called him today to let him know I’d be sending someone by to discuss with him the possibility of a more permanent substitute appointment at the Baker School. I do a fine Principal Lester, but there’s the off chance I didn’t quite hide the timbre of my natural speaking voice and he’d recognize it. Just because he’s merely a substitute teacher doesn’t mean he’s a complete idiot.”
“I’m not qualified to assess him for a permanent appointment!”
“Nor must you be! I don’t think Lester was impressed with his performance—he won’t be receiving a legitimate job offer. No, I need you to go to his home and find out what he remembers about the day he subbed. And report back everything, down to the minutest detail.”
“So having me to dinner tonight instead of coming over to steal my leftovers was—”
“Inducement, Watson. Inducement.”
• • •
The Saturday morning sky was arctic blue with a wind to match. I should have been enjoying coffee by my fireplace, but was instead bundled in a peacoat and scarf and pulling into the driveway of a shabbier-looking ranch house than seemed to belong in the charming college town of New London. Guilt for giving Roger Fellworth false hope was already eating at my edges.
I rang the doorbell and before the last bong sounded a young man in a tie and slacks was ushering me into the warmth of his home, his blond hair sharply parted atop a pointed face.
“Roger Fellworth.” He extended a hopeful hand, and I reciprocated.
“John Watson.”
“Aren’t you the school’s nurse?” he asked, taking my coat.
“I am, but, um, faculty home interviews. Get lots of perspectives. Gelling with the staff and whatnot,” I spouted.
“Sure, that makes sense. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
I accepted and began examining his living room as he clinked around the kitchen.
It was small and filled with light coming in from three large, old windows. The hardwood floor was scuffed but clean, and the room smelled vaguely of oranges. The tidiness felt out of place, as though it had been brought in special for me. A few framed pictures sat on end tables and windowsills: a group of guys linked arm-in-arm donning graduation gear, Roger and another fellow on a boat. The same two at a Red Sox game, and on top of a snow-covered mountain.
Roger returned with two steaming mugs. “Your brother?” I indicated the photos of the two.
“My roommate, just my roommate.” Roger perched on the edge of the sofa. “My mother framed those. She thinks a house isn’t a home without some pictures of friends and family, so…” He shrugged and half-smirked. “We both lived here while we went to school, and neither of us has found a steady job yet, so…” Another shrug.
“Right, well,” I started, just now realizing I had no clue how to begin a stealth interrogation. “So what made you interested in the Baker School?”
“Sure! Yeah! So, um, the Baker School’s fantastic reputation for preparing children…” He continued as I studied his demeanor. He seemed nervous. He kept lifting his hand to his mouth to check for errant bits of food or those white particles that collect on the edges of parched lips. Standard unexperienced interview tics, perhaps, but hardly a motion of guilt. He stared at me in a practiced attempt at professional eye contact, but it came off as unnerving. I realized he had stopped talking. I must have been silent for too long; a few beads of sweat popped up at his hairline.
“Great! That’s great. So, how was the day you spent at the school?”
“Wonderful, everything I thought it would be.”
“Anything strange happen?”
“Strange? No…everything went smoothly.”
“Great! Great. Uh, tell me about your work experience.” He launched into a description of his vagabond lifestyle, professionally speaking—travelling from school to school, how he garnered rave reviews from around New Hampshire, how he just knew the Baker School was the right place for him.
“May I use your restroom?” I asked when he finished.
“Um,” he swallowed hard. “Yeah, sure, it’s right through the kitchen.”
I scanned the rooms I passed through, uncertain what I was looking for. A long blond hair? Some southern comfort food leftovers? A girlie toothbrush in the bathroom? There were no signs Roger had known Ivy, much less had motive to kill her. The only event marked on his calendar was for tomorrow morning at six with someone named Logan. Then, a brochure on the fridge caught my eye, tucked between takeout menus and a tattered chores chart.
“So,” I said, as I settled back down. “Did you make it to any of the conference in Manchester this year?”
“No, not this year. We’ve had a great time there in the past, but that was when scho
ol was paying for it.”
“Ah, yes. Well, that’s too bad.” I stood. “I don’t think I have any further questions for you!”
Roger looked stunned. “You haven’t finished your coffee!”
“Right. Well,” I grabbed the cup and gulped down the last two large sips. “Great, this was great. I’ve got to get back. Someone will be in touch, ah…soon.” I shook his hand again and avoided the worry in his eyes.
• • •
“All in all, not badly done, John,” said Sherlock after I relayed to him what transpired that morning. “I think what you deduced is correct. I don’t think he’s involved in the murder, at least not in the way we expect.”
“He said he’d been to the conference before, though. Maybe he met Ivy then,” I said.
“Yes, he did say something like that.” There was a knock on the door. “Expecting company?”
“Not usually,” I said. I opened the door and looked down. There was Bobby Simmons, excited face flushed from running up the flight of stairs to my door. His mother followed closely behind.
“Why, hello, Bobby! What can I do for you?” I asked.
“I just came from playing in the park with Sarah.”
“He insisted on coming to see you right away, I’m so sorry for intruding on your Saturday,” his mother apologized.
“Not at all. Come in?”
Bobby waited until we were all settled around my dining room table before continuing. “I was playing with Sarah, and she started telling me all about the man she saw in the woods. She told me that he had blond hair and he was tall and skinny and that made me remember that’s just what Mr. Fallwith looked like! I’ve been thinking so hard about that day because it seemed so important. I remembered he was tall because some janitor guy came in, which was weird, because the janitors don’t usually come, but I think someone spilled paint or something. I remember that Mr. Fallwith was just a little bit taller than the janitor, but I’m short so I don’t know for sure.”
“I thought Sarah told the police she didn’t remember what the man looked like?” I asked Sherlock. Both he and Bobby shrugged. “Well, thank you for telling us, Bobby,” I said.
“Yes, Bobby, truly you’ve been a huge help,” said Sherlock. He stood, grabbed a piece of scrap paper from my desk in the corner, and scribbled something on it. “As your reward, here is one get-out-of-doing-homework free pass. Use it wisely.”
Bobby bounced with excitement in his chair. After an effusive round of thank yous, we saw the Simmonses off.
“So,” I said as I closed the door. “Fellworth was the man in the woods.”
“It seems that way, doesn’t it?” Sherlock stared into the fire, standing so close the flames nearly licked his knees.
“What are you thinking about?” I asked.
“That green crayon…”
• • •
Sherlock insisted on bringing me out for drinks in Manchester that night, a half hour from home.
“Why here, by the way?” I finally thought to ask as we entered to the twangs and shrieks of tuning guitars.
“Oh, great beers, live music, and a bunch of folks that I met at the conference the other day are meeting up here for one last round. Just have to run off to the restroom for a second, wait right here.”
A few minutes later Sherlock’s “relative” emerged. “Ready?” he asked in Sherlock’s voice. I followed him to the table of twenty-somethings who had been awaiting our arrival.
Choruses of “Harry!” greeted us as we settled into two empty chairs.
“Harry?” I asked, under my breath.
“Short for Harrison,” Sherlock muttered in my direction.
“We’re about to toast to Ivy, wanted to wait for you and your friend here…John, is it?” One of the men handed me a pint.
“Ivy, what a loss,” Sherlock said, having fallen back into the Midwestern drawl. We clinked and drank. “Did anyone ever get in touch with that fellow she was seeing a few years back? Let him know what happened to her?” This was news to me, but I hid my surprise.
“Oh, him!” said a woman with chestnut curls tumbling around her shoulders. “Wow, I completely forgot about him! They kept that fling going a few years running! Was he even here this year?”
“I don’t think so,” replied one of our bespectacled tablemates. “No, I don’t think he’s been to one of these in a while. You know, I’m pretty sure he’s had trouble finding a job. Anger management,” he faux-whispered.
“Yes, I remember that about him!” exclaimed the curly-haired girl. “But he was sweet with her. Didn’t they do that cute thing where they passed notes to each other on the backsides of crayon wrappers? She always wrote on yellow wrappers, he wrote on green ones.”
My stomach lurched. With a faint nudge under the table Sherlock prodded me into action. Somehow I knew exactly what he wanted me to ask.
“What was his name? What did he look like, this boyfriend of hers?”
“Why?” Chestnut Curls looked at me, confused.
“Just curious. I met Ivy through Harrison. A little jealous she never went for me, I suppose. Wondering about my competition.”
“Don’t remember his name. But he looked a lot like Harry! A tall, blond, skinny teacher!”
• • •
“So. It’s Fellworth,” I said once we’d returned to the car and Sherlock had de-Harrisoned. “I swear he didn’t seem the type when I talked to him. He seemed desperate, sure, and a little sad, but not angry.”
“Of course it’s not Fellworth,” Sherlock snapped. “Give me your car keys.”
“Sherlock?” I said. He had figured it out, I could tell. “Sherlock, what—“
“Keys,” he snapped again. He leapt into the driver’s seat, and I’d barely closed the passenger door when he whipped out of the parking spot. “Put this into your GPS.” He dictated a familiar address.
“Hang on, so it is Roger Fellworth.”
“Not quite, John. We need to get to the other man who lives there. I’m sorry to say I don’t know his name.”
I was silent for a few moments as Sherlock drove.
“Tim,” I said suddenly, looking up from my phone. “His name is Tim.”
“Have you recently developed extrasensory perception?” Sherlock asked.
“No,” I replied. “I’m just rather adept at finding people on social media.”
Bare trees began to blur outside the windows.
“The flight leaves at six. We should make it,” he said. “Unless he stayed somewhere else…” The speedometer scratched the edge of eighty-five.
“Flight? What…?”
“Call Detective Adams. Tell her to meet us there.” His foot depressed the gas some more. I did as he said, relaying the address to a wary but intrigued Adams.
“Sherlock…” I started as I ended the call.
“John! I promise you I will not wreck your car!”
“I believe that. But you’ve caught the attention of a state trooper.”
His eyes flicked to the rear-view mirror which was now awash in red and blue lights. “Oh, this will work nicely,” he said. We were zipping along the pavement at ninety miles per hour now. “Hang on, Watson!”
We screeched to halt in front of the shabby ranch thirty-five minutes after leaving the bar. Sherlock’s speed shaved fifteen minutes from the trip, and had attracted the attention of no fewer than four police cruisers. Detective Adams pulled up the rear.
“With me, Detective!” shouted Sherlock as he bounded to the front door. He rang the bell. I could hear Adams requesting that the officers stand down, telling them he was with her and that she was very sorry.
The door opened on a stunned Roger Fellworth. “Mr. Watson?” He looked at me, scared. “What’s going on?”
“We need to talk to your roommate, Tim,” I said.
“He’s in his room, packing…” Before Roger could invite us in, Sherlock pushed through the doorway and bounded to the back of the house. There was a thu
d, a crash, a shattering of glass, and an “ow,” and as suddenly as he’d taken off, Sherlock emerged with Tim the roommate in tow.
“What is going on in here?” Detective Adams demanded as Sherlock dragged the bloody-nosed blond man into view.
“Arrest this man for the murder of Ivy Morton,” Sherlock commanded. “Grabbed him trying to slip out the back window.”
“I’m going to need more than your unqualified, albeit authoritative, command to arrest a man I’ve never heard of,” said Adams.
“Fine.” Sherlock threw Tim onto the couch and loomed over him to prevent another escape attempt. “Ivy meets Tim a few years ago at a conference. Each year, they get together again, rekindle the romance, pass sweet notes on crayon wrappings. But Tim hasn’t been able to attend for the past year or so. They fall out of touch. This year, though, he learns she’s engaged. He has to see her again, she’s the love of his life. Ivy misses Tim, she enjoys the thrill of the illicit. So they meet up in secret, away from the conference, away from anyone who knows she’s engaged.
“Tim’s roommate is subbing at the Baker School, exactly halfway between his home and the conference. They plan their trysts by leaving clandestine notes there, in the faraway woods of the school, to avoid creating a digital trail.”
“You’re crazy,” Tim interjected through a bloody lip. “I never even—!”
Sherlock continued as though the man said nothing.
“But then Tim gets a note from Ivy that he cannot abide. She feels too guilty, she wants to marry her fiancé with a clean conscience, so before things go too far, she breaks it off. Tim begs her to meet him one more time at the Baker School. Things get out of control, they argue, he loses his temper, he chokes her to death. He stuffs her body in the tube slide, but not before taking back the green crayon with the incriminating final message scribed inside. Unlucky for Tim, he doesn’t shove the whole crayon into his pocket before making his escape down the adjacent slide, leaving a long, green streak on the inside of the tube. That playground is scrubbed to a sparkle every day at five o’clock, thanks to a generous donation from Megan’s mom. That green streak could only have come from Tim’s flight from the Baker School.”
Baker Street Irregulars Page 16