Strangled by simile, p.9
Strangled by Simile, page 9
Balancing the cracker box, a bag of carrots, and the page, Emma remarked, “The beginning of the report says ‘external examination.’ It’s so sad that his human-highlighter-colored outfits are part of the victim description.” She sighed. “It lists your pink-and-teal scarf under ‘effects’ that came in with the body, I guess, but it also lists ‘fanny pack.’” She laid her treasure out on the coffee table. “I don’t remember a fanny pack. Plus, I can’t even see Charlie as the type to carry one, on his fanny or any which where.” She cracked down on a carrot. “Do you? It says right here, leather black fanny pack. Empty.”
“No, I don’t. Unless it matched his shoes. He had a thing about matching stuff with his shoes, right?” Leslie studied the second paper. “Look at this description of the contusion—known throughout this report as ‘Contusion A.’ Contusion A is a half-inch wide, well-defined line across subject’s neck. Hemorrhage under dermis shows patterning—deeper bruising across initial contusion, with bruise lines across width of injury two centimeters apart. Resembles a ladder. See photo.” She crunched a carrot. “It’s too bad you couldn’t have just bogarted the entire envelope so we could look at the photos.”
Emma opened the Triscuit box. “Okay, hello, Gift Horse? Quit checking me in the mouth and work with what we know. How could your scarf make those bruises?”
“Lines on a ladder don’t make sense. The scarf had a pattern on it, but not in it, ya know? I mean, the teal flowers were the same as the scarf’s background—not raised up or thicker or anything that could cause a line pattern on Charlie’s throat. Plus, flowers are flowy, curvy, no straight lines.” Leslie scrunched up the bottom of her Blue Oyster Cult T-shirt and tried unsuccessfully to press it into the skin of her forearm to attempt indenting her skin.
“Ooh! So you think something else killed him? The scarf was just a decoy? My goodness, that’s smart of the killer. Niome is just gonna perseverate on that scarf, and on you, because he hates you so much. And because he loves you so much, right? And because that’s just the way he is.” Ladder-pattern bruising—this is information we can use. It has to be. “Do you know of someone who might wanna frame you with that scarf? Or frame David?”
“Pttthhhh,” Leslie pursed her mouth and blew a raspberry, spraying Triscuit crumbs.
The pets at their feet sniffed around, looking for edible cracker shards.
“Niome’s such a nightmare. He’ll be looking for a killer in all the wrong places, to somewhat quote me some Johnny Lee instead of Shakespeare.” She wiped her hands like she was wiping the chief of detectives away, and she picked up Trinky, turned her over, and examined the cat’s neck, stroking the fur there. “I dunno if there’s people around who’d want to frame me—besides Charlie, I mean. What do you think could cause a ladder pattern on his throat?” Trinky flipped back over and leapt off the couch, stalking away.
Emma chuckled at her haughty kitty and kept reading. “Looky here. Hyoid bone, thyroid, and cricoid cartilages are fractured. Cause of death, strangulation by laryngeal fracture. So his Adam’s apple got crushed. Poor Charlie. It sure doesn’t seem like gettin’ wound up in a scarf could cause a fracture of his larynx, does it? Ooh... wait, wait just a minute. Here under conclusions, it says ‘abrasions and laryngeal fractures inconsistent with cause of death, as suggested by presenting officers. Weapon is more likely to be something solid and substantial, more concentrated in force than a piece of fabric or something as malleable as such. A narrow log or stake, possibly? Fireplace poker? No physical or trace evidence was found on or around the body that would assist in weapon’s identification. No items consistent with the autopsy findings regarding weapon accompanied the body.’”
Emma slapped the paper. “Leslie, that means your scarf didn’t kill him! Holy cow, lady, you’re off the hook. Isn’t that fantastic?” Emma jumped off the couch and bounced on her toes, thankful to have good news to focus on instead of Adam’s apple fractures and MRIs.
“I suppose, Pollyanna. The killer still used my scarf, though, even if that’s not what ultimately killed him. And a harder or more substantial weapon expands our suspect list once again because it wouldn’t take someone super strong to do it, like it would have with a scarf. It plops you or me or skinny ol’ Speedo Man David square back in the running. Along with our superintendent, who last I checked, we’d decided needs protection not suspicion.” Leslie blew another frustrated raspberry, only using spit this time—the Triscuit box was empty. “I feel like we’re back to square one.”
“Okay, okay, Negative Nancy. I’m sleepy, and I need to call Hunter and settle him down as far as his initial objections to me investigating another murder. Then I’ve got to arrange for all y’all’s support at my test on Monday. Square one—or maybe one and a half—or not, where do we go from here about finding Charlie’s killer?” Emma raised one finger to signify a list coming. “I think we should go back to the gym tomorrow, maybe back to Charlie’s office, if there’s a way to get in there, and see if we can find a type of object that could make ladder-pattern bruises while crushing a big man’s neck. I can ask Hunter, since he’s back from his clinic, to figure out who Becker is and what he has to do with Sawyer Hammond’s lost football scholarship. We can get my honey-bunny back on the investigatin’ team. What do you think? It’s not square one, because we can look into those things, and maybe we can put Edward on research into Charlie’s random empty fanny pack. Ooh, and what about Sawyer and Gino as far as their alibis for the time of Charlie’s death? We could follow up there, too, right? If they’d stop ditching my acting class—silly seniors!” She picked up Sir Toby and hugged her close. “Right, Sir Toby? It’s not square one, is it? We’re on the right track. Awen’t we, my wittle shweetie peetie pie?”
Leslie rolled her eyes at the baby talk. “You’re right, Polly Pureheart. Trust in you to leap square one in a single bound. You hit the sack. I’ll head down the street to hit on Shawn—who promised me he and his Watchmen would do some regular drive-bys around Superintendent Foreman’s neighborhood, by the way—and we’ll hit this investigation again mañana.” She kissed Emma’s cheek. “Love you, suga’.” Then she trotted across the lawn to board her fancy red convertible.
Emma waved from the porch then followed her pets back inside.
Our doubts are traitors
And make us lose the good we oft might win,
By fearing to attempt.
– Measure for Measure, I.4.77–9
Chapter 12
Friday, October 20
Emma couldn’t bring herself to fully admit to her friends that she was terrified about her upcoming MRI. Her phone conversation with Hunter helped a little—he really was a master at saying the right things to make her feel better, but her sleep had been restless. At five thirty, when she couldn’t stare at her ceiling for one second longer, she’d hauled herself out of bed, fed herself and her pets, and walked Sir Toby around a still-night-enveloped block, then driven herself to school. At that point, she felt her vision was clear enough to avoid hiring an Uber driver, at least for the five-minute roll down the street. Dr. Navires had offered steroids as a treatment to shorten the duration of the optic neuritis. But truth be told, she was scared of those too.
She sat alone in the teacher parking lot. Two other cars in the front row were parked side by side—a white Toyota and a dark-green pickup truck. She wasn’t sure of the make or model. Pinewood had many pickups around town with the enormous tires and lifted frames, but the one in the lot was just a basic drive-a-day truck. She wondered who owned the two cars, because the only person she could think of that might be there that early was Abigail, and she drove a little yellow Volkswagen bug. Like Abigail, it was as cute as a bug, as her daddy would’ve said.
“Oh, Daddy, I wish you could see me now... all my wonderful friends and students in this sweet little town. If things get any better, I might have to hire someone to help me enjoy it, really. But there’s this pesky little eyesight problem, and the doctor is looking at something really scary. Did ya hear? Multiple sclerosis. Nobody in our family has that, do they? Mama said nobody did, to the best of her remembering, but she also said there was no way it could be MS. She just said, ‘It’d never happen.’”
She chuckled. “But Mama’s always been like that, hasn’t she? Denial ain’t just a river in Egypt with that lady. With me neither, it looks like.” Emma opened her car door and checked around the almost empty lot at the light-pole shadows cast across the paint stripes marking the parking spaces. “Remember when they confirmed your emphysema? She said it was only a head cold for at least a month before she’d admit you might be sick. Stubborn, all you Lovetts, I swear to Pete. Anyway, I’m freaking out a little. Maybe more than a little.”
Emma crossed the lot, angling her stride so she could glide by the cars and peek in the windows. Maybe she would find something of substance—a hard thing that could’ve been used to strangle Charlie, since they knew it wasn’t Leslie’s scarf. A white rabbit-foot hung from the mirror of the Toyota, but the truck had only an empty Naugahyde bench.
“No clues here, Daddy, unless you feel like passing judgment on the rabbit-foot. I know your thoughts on superstition—people fall for it in place of evidence.” Reaching into her purse, she heaved out her huge key ring—classroom keys, auditorium keys, an overabundance of keys. Edward had even given her and Leslie a library key, even though Emma was pretty sure he lived there and could, therefore, always let them in. A rabbit-foot used to be attached to her massive hunk of jangling metal, too, but Sir Toby ate it. She’d pooped pink fur for a week.
I could use some superstitious comfort right about now, something soft and pettable at least. Seriously, what if something is really wrong with me? I’m not even thirty years old. What if I’m sick and never get to marry Hunter or have his children? My children. Our children. What if I have a brain tumor behind my eyes that’s screwing up my vision? Emma cracked her neck and rolled the shoulder and arm that didn’t have a heavy purse hanging from it. Snap out of it, silly. Dr. Navires didn’t even mention a brain tumor as a possibility. You need to stop being such a worrywart. But she couldn’t turn it off. Even talking to her daddy wasn’t calming her down like it usually did.
The courtyard felt colder than the parking lot, for some reason, and Emma listened to the chunk-chunk sound of tumblers turning as she unlocked the main doors. She looked at her phone. Six fifteen. That would give her almost an hour to work before students dribbled in, so she hurried across the commons. No one was in the main office.
She tripped going up the two stairs to the teacher’s lounge, cursing as she caught herself on the doorway. “Sorry, Daddy. I know you hate the language—it’s not ladylike,” she murmured, curving around to the mailboxes along the wall. She noted nothing interesting in her mailbox and made a mental note to be more like Leslie and not be such a slave to that check-her-mail expectation.
A squeal from the main office startled Emma. “Quit that, silly!” someone said with a laugh. “No fooling around at work!”
“Work is the best place to fool around because we have reasons to be here, right?”
Something fell off a desk, and male laughter followed a whisper as tussling and smoochy sounds filtered up to the lounge.
So that’s who belongs to the Toyota and the pickup truck—our new secretary, Rachel, and Coach Andy Marston! I thought they were lookin’ way too cozy the other day. How is it I didn’t see them in the parking lot and they weren’t in the office yet when I walked through it? I know my vision can’t be that bad! Emma wanted to wait for them to leave so she could avoid the uncomfortable situation altogether, but Rachel probably wouldn’t go, since it was her office. Shoot. How am I going to get out of this? I have to get through there if I want to get into the Old Gym and look inside Charlie’s office for what killed him.
The kissy noises floating up into the lounge had Emma ready to leap out the back window when Rachel spoke. “Speaking of reasons to be here, I don’t know if I’ve congratulated you yet on the new job, head football coach.” Another loud smack.
Ew.
“I’d never wish what happened to Charlie on anyone, but that is a nice result. Plus, I think he was getting suspicious about us, ya know? And Sandy is his cousin—I dunno if a bro code would overpower a family code for that guy—William’s priorities are all skewed.”
Wait, what? Sandy must be Andy’s wife. Aww, that’s cute. Sandy and Andy. Too bad Andy is a miserable, cheating sack of—
“Not skewed, nice. I think a family code is nice,” Rachel said. “I wish my family stuck up for each other like—”
Emma interrupted her by banging her elbow into a mailbox. Okay, this is it. “Sure, Leslie, I’ma comin’,” Emma said loudly, rattling another chair for good measure. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist.” Emma put the chair down and noisily crushed her junk mail before stuffing it into the garbage can. “Really? I can’t imagine how you felt when he was right there waiting for you. Lucky, ducky.” She propped her cell phone against her ear and her shoulder and made a big show of it, leaning her other shoulder against the door as she came out of the lounge. Smiling widely at the now-separated Andy and Rachel, she slid down the two stairs. “No, I’m serious! I, unlike you, think it’s important to check our mailboxes every day, silly. Yes, of course, see you in a minute.”
She pretended to disconnect the phone and dropped it in her purse. Rachel and Andy stood several feet apart, shoulders tensed and eyes wide. Emma didn’t know if either of them was guilty of murder, but they sure looked like people caught doing something illicit.
“Good morning, Rachel and Coach! I was just picking up my mail when Leslie called, hollering about a freshman class lesson plan we’re working on together, and where am I and... well, y’all know how it goes. Always something to do, and chop-chop, let’s get it goin’ already, right? I figured you’d get it, since we’re all here early to catch that worm, now, aren’t we?”
Andy laughed. “That’s right. We’re all early birds here.” He caught Rachel’s eye. “Right, Miss Bilty? I really appreciate you coming here so early to get me those players’ grade checks.”
“Of course, Mr. Marston. All you have to do is ask.” Rachel stepped over to a filing cabinet and opened one of the drawers, like that’d been her plan all along.
Neither of them actually winked at each other, but they seemed very satisfied. Emma couldn’t deal with the subterfuge. “Okay, gotta go. I’ve been summoned.”
Before either of them could get another word in, Emma was through the office doors and back to the commons, on her way to the Old Gym to take a peek and hopefully leave forty-five minutes or so to work on her lessons for the day.
Whew.
“HI, HUNTER. ARE YOU comin’ to the library for lunch?” Emma’s morning had been uneventful after the embarrassing but maybe informative tryst she’d eavesdropped on.
Charlie’s office was empty—totally cleared out. So much for finding whatever could have caused that ladder pattern at the crime scene. I guess Clueless Carl and Ted score a point for thoroughness. Sawyer Hammond hadn’t even shown up for acting class, and when she’d sidled over to Gino, he’d blatantly slid away, avoiding her.
Now she stood in Hunter’s room, eager to ask him all about the story with married Andy Marston and married Rachel. Wait. Is Rachel married? I don’t even know. We thought she was single, but this morning was the first time I ever talked to her, if I could call it conversation. Hit and run, maybe...
No matter, she wanted to hear all the gory details as far as how her new information might relate to their investigation. Andy could be a good suspect if he was hiding an illicit affair from the football coaches, especially with all the politics around sports in their town.
A few students were still packing up their books, but Hunter seemed to forget all about the PDA rule when he saw Emma. “Emma!” he hollered, charging across the classroom to envelop her in a bear hug. “Hi, sweetie,” he whispered in her ear. “How are you feeling? I missed you while I was at my football clinic.”
“I’m fine,” she whispered back, squeezing her eyes shut to avoid getting teary. “I missed you too. And speaking of your football clinic, I have some sports-related questions for you—sort of related, I guess, indirectly.”
“Thanks, Trevor, Amy.” Hunter nodded to the two students and made move-it-right-along motions with his hands. “Tomorrow.” He led Emma to his desk and gestured the students out, ignoring Trevor’s leering wink. “I’m so glad we’re all going to your appointment on Monday,” Hunter said. “I’m sure nothing’s seriously wrong. The doc’ll tell you it’s nothing or whatever’s happening is easily fixed or...” He sat down. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“Careful,” Emma said. “Your repetition’s showing.”
“It’s just—” His face flushed, and he collapsed back behind his desk.
“I know what it’s just, sweetie.” Emma parked her behind on the corner of his desk. “I’m glad you’re coming with me too. I’m pretty rattled over this eyesight thing and this balance thing. I need you guys! And now I need you to come with me to the library. But listen. I heard a conversation in the office this morning between Andy Marston and Rachel, the new secretary.” She rattled off a summary of Andy and Rachel’s exchange.
“Meh. Andy Marston.” Hunter shook his head. “He hasn’t said anything to me, but an affair between him and Rachel has been the scuttlebutt for the past couple of weeks. He’s a good coach and all but doesn’t have much restraint when it comes to his personal life. I don’t think Rachel is his first. You know those types, Em. Some guys are—” He stopped short.
“I know, I know, I married one of those guys, remember? But my question is about his wife. She’s Charlie’s cousin, right? Andy said something about Charlie’s family code being stronger than any bro code because of William. There’re no rumors out there about him being that close to his dad or that protective of him—I thought Charlie only used ‘Super-Daddy’ as his get-out-of-trouble-free card.”
