Strangled by simile, p.8
Strangled by Simile, page 8
“As in William Foreman!” Edward’s eyes widened.
“Charlie’s father?” Leslie asked.
“Yes,” Emma confirmed. “Charlie’s father and Pinewood School District’s superintendent.”
Chapter 10
“You think Charlie’s father killed him?” Edward’s mouth hung open like a fish’s. “I mean, I know Charlie is loud and inappropriate, certainly not a father’s pride and joy, but... to kill his own son? I can’t imagine.” Plopping back down in front of his computer, Edward again started typing. “Historically, that’d be known as filicide, and I think it’s so rare”—he tapped the screen—“it’s difficult to even find a reference to it in history or literature.”
“I can’t think of a reference either.” Leslie peered over Edward’s shoulder. “Not even in my extensive knowledge of another William, our BFF William Shakespeare. Except, ooh.” She shivered. “Except in Titus Andronicus, and that guy kills his son and his daughter. But that whole play reads like Ol’ Willy’s favorite stuffed animal was stolen and beheaded that year. Twisted story, Titus Andronicus, like Shakespeare time-traveled in a nightmare to a really gory slasher snuff film and took an idea from that. It’s totally out of character for our genius.”
Emma stacked their empty yellow lunch trays in preparation to return them to the cafeteria. “I don’t know if I think Charlie’s father killed him. I met him once, during my second year. He was actually pretty quiet for a person in such a powerful position. I can’t imagine any parent could go to those lengths. But we’ve seen some of the lengths parents will go, haven’t we? Pretty far. And the superintendent position is super political and public, right? I mean... who knows how embarrassin’ Charlie’s antics had become?”
She picked up the stack. “Maybe if the piece of paper I found is part of the name William, that could just mean whatever Charlie’d been worrying about lately could have something to do with his father. Maybe now that Charlie’s gone, his dad could be in danger too. Oh my, maybe I should take this clue to the police. I’d never forgive myself if someone else was hurt because I hid evidence.” Tears burned behind Emma’s eyes again, and she had to hold them back. She should go to the chief detective, even if he wasn’t a good chief of detectives—not a good chief of crossing guards or hall monitors, either—but she should go. I should tell him about Sawyer and Gino, too, even if I feel so strongly that they would never kill anyone. I just need to lay all the cards on the table.
Emma started toward the door, but Leslie stopped her. “Hold on, Iggy Impatience. Haven’t we established that Carl Niome knows less about public safety than a first-year elementary school crossing guard? Settle down. Lemme think about this for a minute before you go off at Mach 10 with your hair on fire.”
Edward stood and took the stack of trays from Emma. “Allow me, my dear.” He held them flat on one palm, like a waiter bussing a big table of diners. “William Foreman is a decent-sized individual—maybe close to six feet tall, but Charlie was ever so much larger than he. I don’t think he’d have the strength to strangle Charlie with a scarf, even if he were ridiculously angry. I’ve no children of my own, but I’ve certainly been angry with people under my charge.” He fidgeted, probably remembering his huge banned-from-the-library list. “But not angry enough to kill them. I’m with you, Emma. We should carefully continue searching for clues—without assuming William couldn’t be Charlie’s killer but, on the other side, making sure we can protect him. And through another source besides Carl Niome.”
“Since Hunter’s not in town,” Leslie said, “I’ll call Shawn. He has this whole group of pals—they play basketball at Circle Park all the time—who fancy themselves these weird vigilante superheroes. They call themselves the Neighborhood Watchmen.” She snorted. “Shawn even had T-shirts made for them with these symbols on the front—wristwatch faces wearing capes. I think so far they haven’t done more than rescue a few cats out of trees, but you gotta appreciate their enthusiasm. And their muscles—I especially appreciate the muscles.” She held her hand up in response to Emma’s raised eyebrows. “I won’t tell them why William needs protection. Don’t worry. I’ll just make up something related to a school function.”
“All right.” Emma sniffed. “I won’t take the clue anywhere as long as we can keep people safe.” She took the trays back from Edward and hugged them close. “I can do this, Edward. Let me. I’m going to the teacher’s lounge anyway to check my mailbox before fifth, and I’m going to leave straight from class to get to the neurologist. I’m fine, promise.” She blew one-handed kisses to them both. “Leslie, I’ll call you as soon as I get home.”
COLORADO NEUROLOGY and Endocrinology was in a new building on the east end of town. It was tall, by Pinewood standards, a four-story white rectangle with a parking garage on the bottom—also unusual in Pinewood. Most buildings had little parking lots and some open side streets. A parking garage was practically metropolitan. Emma had the Uber drive her under the building and wind around two rows before letting her out close to the elevator. She noted the large C labeling the row because, if she didn’t, she would almost certainly wander about aimlessly before she could find it again. She continued to an elevator in the corner of the lot. Hunter thought her lack of directional sense was funny, but it just annoyed her. Why doesn’t my body know to turn right when I leave if I turned left when I arrived? It’s beyond infuriating!
Checking the buttons inside the elevator,Emma punched the one for the second floor, which said simply “Medical.” The elevator doors opened to a brightly lit hallway with hospital-beige Berber and a window at the end. The pictures along the walls were actual photos—sprawling ski slopes with sparkling snow and stands of pine and majestic elk amidst the evergreens. She wished she could be there, snuggled in front of a fire with hot cocoa and wrapped in a ski parka, even though she didn’t know how to ski, because despite the scenery on the walls, the place still smelled like a medical building.
The pictures are so beautiful. It’s so much better to wish myself there instead of headed into another doctor’s office, for him to tell me—what? That I have a brain tumor? Progressive macular degeneration that’ll blind me before I’m thirty?
She flicked the thoughts away before they could take root and studied the names of the medicine being practiced in each office. Room 201, Orthopedics—Dr. Sanjay Pastmarthi; 202, Pediatrics—Dr. Julian Smart; 203, Medical Examiner—Dr. Sarah Campman; 204, Radiol—
Emma stopped and backed up two steps. Medical examiner? The ME office should be on Seventh Street. Sarah Campman? That office had a really handsome ME named Will Capshaw. That can’t be right. This town is too small for more than one medical examiner. What in the Sam Hill’s is going on over here?
Emma paused for a split second outside the door then poked her head inside. “Hello?” She smiled at the auburn-haired woman in the white lab coat who sat behind a computer. “Hi there—I’m so sorry to bother you, ma’am. Is this the medical examiner’s office? I thought that was on Seventh Street. Not that I have any bodies that need to be examined. It’s just, just, ahhh, I thought it was on Seventh Street.”
The woman stood and offered her hand to Emma. “Good afternoon. Yes, this is the ME’s office. Since the end of the summer, all the medical offices have been herded into this giant complex. Is it the appeal of the parking garage? Couldn’t tell ya, but here we are.”
She and Emma shook hands, both using a firm no-shrinking-violet grip.
“I’m Dr. Campman. How can I help you today?” Dr. Campman had a strong jawline that ended in a pointy chin, and she wore cat-shaped glasses over wide-set green eyes. If she’d shaken the bun holding her red hair loose, Emma might have shouted “Cat Lady!”
Of course, she had no reason to do that, but the closer Emma got to her scary doctor’s appointment, the loopier she felt. “Um, hello, Doctor. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m so sorry to bother you during your move, but I thought Will Capshaw was the medical examiner.” Emma came all the way in. “I’m sorry, um, Dr. Will, Dr. Will Capshaw.”
A round table on her right was stacked with boxes, and the computer desk was covered with files. A door between the two said “Laboratory.” “Ugh, I know it’s such a mess. I have a new case, and things just keep getting delivered,” Dr. Campman said. “You know Will? Then you also know he’s an adventurer, a rambling man.” She smiled wistfully. “He rambled on over to Uganda to be a doctor without a border.”
Emma smiled. “Uganda! Of course. He must’ve gone because of Kisten Hollis. A, um, a case he had last year, with one of my students. She died, and so did I—almost. Died, I mean. Dr. Will saved me.” He was wonderful in his job and super sexy. Hunter’s the one for me, though.
Dr. Campman’s sharp green eyes sharpened further. “So that means you’re the crime-fighting English teacher, right?” She rapped her knuckles on the table. “He sang your praises ad nauseam. I think he wanted to do more than just save you, if you know what I mean.” The phone rang. “Excuse me.” She answered the phone, listened to the caller, and said, “those numbers are in the lab. Hang on. I’ll go get them.” She pressed a hold button and put the receiver back in its cradle. “I’m sorry, but I have to take this. Did you need anything else?”
“No, thank you, Doctor. I actually have an appointment here on this floor. I just saw your sign and thought I’d peek in and say hi to Dr. Will. Thank you for your time.”
“You’re welcome. Goodbye.” Dr. Campman trotted through the laboratory door, and Emma heard her take up the phone conversation in the back.
Interesting. Will really is an adventurer. I wonder if he shipped his motorcycle to Africa. I can completely imagine him hooking up with another equally border-free beauty over there.
Emma opened the door just as a young man with an acne-scarred face in a delivery uniform rushed in, almost tripping her. “Hey, sorry!” he said. “Second day, totally late, Mick’s gonna kick my ass.” He thrust an envelope at Emma. “Can you give this to the doc? She’s expecting it—called to have it sent up. Hurry, hurry, everyone’s got their panties all in a wad.” He shook his head. “I know, I know, rules and shit privacy garbage but you’re fine, right? You’ll just give it to ’er? Great, that’s so great. Thanks, man. Take it easy. Gotta go.” And he ran back down the hall.
Emma looked at the manila envelope. The corner said “McKisson Transcription,” and the middle said “Foreman, Charles Michael, Autopsy Findings.” Her breath caught. Holy Crow, this is a monster clue! She strained to hear any noises coming from the laboratory that might indicate the doctor’s return. A low droning voice à la parents in the Charlie Brown movies told her Dr. Campman was still on the phone. Should I? No, of course I shouldn’t. But it’s for Charlie... I have to!
Keeping an ear tilted toward the laboratory door, she turned the envelope over and, with shaking fingers, squeezed the two-prong clasp together and pulled the flap through the eyelet. Come on now, Emma Rose Lovett. Don’t you worry about that mule. Just load the wagon, now. We have to find Charlie’s killer. The stack of papers inside was minimal, only three sheets of typed information, with the top sheet titled “Tissue Analysis.” As quickly as she could, Emma spread the three sheets on two of the boxes atop the round table, clicking pictures of each report with her cell phone. She then stuffed the pages back in the envelope and shoved the prongs through the hole, pushing them apart with her fingers and flinging the envelope onto the computer desk.
“Thank you, Briar. I’ll have the reports to you by the end of day tomorrow.” Dr. Campman’s volume increased as she wrapped up her conversation, thankfully for Emma.
She double-checked the position of the report, faceup and label forward, then hustled out the door. In the hallway, she checked her phone. 4:10. Shoot, I’m late! Trottting carefully past Radiology, Door 204, she stopped in front of 205, Endocrinology and Neurology. Before she opened the door, she sent the pictures to Leslie, with the text SHHHH! CLUE FOR YOU! Then she took a deep breath, opened the door, and entered.
Chapter 11
The Indian summer heat had transformed into crisp evening early-fall air by the time Emma headed home from her appointment—the Uber driver let her out at the school so she could ger her car. Pulling into the driveway of her teeny house, she spotted Leslie sitting on the front porch. She’d changed her clothes since school let out, and Emma could see her Tweety Bird sneakers poking out from the bottom of her black sweatpants. A folded sheaf of papers sprouted from one hand, which Leslie shook at Emma as Emma climbed out of the Honda.
“Boy, do we have some things to talk about, Grasshoppah!” she called. “Not the least of which is how in the hell did you get this information? Is your neurologist moonlighting as the coroner?” She helped Emma up the three cement steps, took the key from her, and unlocked the door.
“Would you stop with the babying, please?” Emma snatched the keys back then dropped them so she could crouch in the doorway to smother Trinky and Sir Toby with kisses. “Helloo, baby girls! Mama has missed you all the livelong day!” She picked the keys back up, hung them on the hook, and collapsed on the little couch.
Her pets followed.
“I’m not an invalid. I swear. A little blurry vision, some minor clumsiness, and everyone’s actin’ like I’m breakable!” She rubbed all over Sir Toby’s shoulders, a doggie massage. “And no, my neurologist isn’t moonlighting. And Dr. Will’s gone, too—off to Doctors Without Borders in Uganda. Maybe he’s hangin’ out with Diane and Otto.” She opened her phone screen. “I looked at this on the way back to the school—I’ve now been officially chauffeured by an Uber driver, but—”
Leslie crossed into the kitchen and rummaged around in the refrigerator. “Sounds like Will found the perfect adventure for the Dangerous Doctor. I wonder if he shipped his motorcycle overseas.” She slammed the refrigerator door. “There’s nothing good to eat, here or at my house. It’s depressing. I can wait to talk to you about all this new news anyway. Tell me about your appointment.” She plopped down next to Emma on the couch, picked up Trinculo, and deposited the cat on her lap, oblivious to the orange hairs on her black sweat pants.
Emma shrugged. “Well, he was nice. His name is Dr. Navires, which he told me is French for ‘ship.’ He laughs about it, since he’s been landlocked in the Colorado mountains for the past twenty-five years.” She continued rubbing Sir Toby’s shoulders, and the dog gazed at her with loving adoration. “He’s tall. I mean, really tall—like six foot seven. I guess he’s known for being thorough, and I can see that about him. I was in there for an hour, and when I told him all my symptoms, he kept asking ‘Anything else? Anything else?’ It was nice—I think I covered it all. And his nurse, Mickey, was hilarious—he shaves his head bald as a baby’s butt and would rather talk musicals than medicine. I loved him, and we’re trading our favorite novels at my next appointment.”
“But what did he say, little missy? Not Mickey, Navires. What’s happening with your eyes and your klutziness and foggy brain? Inquiring minds want to know.” Leslie tapped Emma’s knee. “We’re worried.”
I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t want to know. “He did a lot of tests—made me tap my fingers together and go back and forth tapping my nose to his finger, finger, nose, finger, nose, fingernosegfingernosefingernose, until I kind of stabbed myself in the eye. It was embarrassing, and you know I’m a little klutzy anyhow. He said my eyesight problem is called optic neuritis, he thinks, which can be caused by lots of things—low phosphorus, high potassium, diabetes...” she met Leslie’s eyes then looked down. “MS.”
“MS? Multiple sclerosis? My aunt had that. It can wreak some havoc on your central nervous system. She was in a wheelchair. Oh, shit, did the doctor say you could end up in a wheelchair?”
Emma nodded. “He said my issues could have lots of causes, but that’s one of them. I don’t know, Leslie. I just want to wait and see.” Her eyes took on the sheen that preceded tears. She blinked them back. “I have to do an MRI and a spinal tap, which based on what he said—and what I read on my phone—sounds like the worst test ever invented.” She shuddered. “Anyway, he said not to worry because he tap-tapped on his computer and found an appointment for both tests on Monday afternoon. And before you say anything, the answer is yes. Yes, I’d like you and Hunter to go with me, and yes, I’d really, really like to not think or talk any more about it right now. Let’s talk about Charlie’s autopsy results instead. I see you printed out my photos.”
Leslie leaned across both of Emma’s pets and wrapped her arms around Emma, squashing the pets and squeezing tight. “Of course, my friend. Let’s talk about autopsy results.” She held the hug a little longer, though, then shook herself and picked up the printout. “I started reading all this stuff while I was sitting in front of your house—it’s super CSI, sounds very technical and thorough and like all the police procedurals we’ve ever read. Like here, petechial hemorrhages of conjunctivae and facial dermis, red spots all over his eyes and cheeks. Is that what you saw?”
“Oh, I don’t know exactly. It happened so fast.” Emma took the paper. “I just remember tryin’ to get my fingers under that scarf—your scarf—to get to his neck to feel for a pulse, but it was wound tighter’n an eight-day clock. I could tell he was dead. I don’t know if it was petechial hemorrhages or conjunctivae or any other fancy wordwork. He looked awful.” She stood to go to the kitchen, and her pets followed. “Are you hungry? I know all this talk should be turning my stomach, but my goodness, it’s six thirty! Way past my dinnertime and galloping along toward my bedtime.” She opened the refrigerator door. “You’re right. There’s nothing here. I know there’s Triscuits in the pantry.” She moved slightly right, where the pantry door overlooked three short steps to her basement and back door. “Here we go. I’ve some carrots too.”
