Not One Clue_ A Mystery Part 5

"Actually, there was was a man involved. Two, in fact." I frowned, remembering Jackson. a man involved. Two, in fact." I frowned, remembering Jackson.

"They gonna be all right?"

"Who?"

"Whoever you're worried about."

I considered that for a moment. "Have you ever thought about becoming one of those psychic readers?"

She shook her head. "They make a lot of money?"

"Has to be more than what I pay you."

She thought about that for a second, then shrugged. "Money ain't all it's cracked up to be. My kids would just take it anyhow," she said, and turned back toward her desk. "You need any ice for those ribs?"

"No. I'll be fine." I'm extremely comfortable in the role of martyr. More than once I had considered investing in a nice camel-hair tunic, but at that precise moment I was wearing a pair of black capris with a short-sleeved turquoise blouse. It may not be much in the way of fever-inducing itching, but the top was fairly new and I didn't want to get it wet from melting ice.

"How about a long john?" Shirley asked, and opening a drawer, drew out a little white paper bag.

The glorious smell of refined sugar permeated the air. Thompson's Bakery, I thought, then sniffed again, olfactory nerves twittering. No. Donuts Go Round, I decided judiciously. Two rolls. Fresh-baked that morning. Maple frosting. No filling. "I shouldn't," I said.

"You been in a scuffle," she argued, and came back around the desk, delectable bag held in her right hand like a balm from the G.o.ds. "You need healin' food."

"Long johns have have been proven to have medicinal benefits." been proven to have medicinal benefits."

"Nothing better."

"And you are are wiser than I," I said. wiser than I," I said.

"It's G.o.d's truth." Handing over the bag, she lumbered back to her post. "Got a new client coming in at nine," she said, but I was still staring at the bag and feeling a little mushy.

"Shirley ..."

"I love you, too," she said, and not bothering to look up, waved me off. "Now go eat that before the new gal shows up and finds you got frosting in your hair."

Rising a little unsteadily, I turned away, knowing true wisdom when I heard it. I do do tend to frost my hair when donuts become involved. Sometimes, in fact, my shoes get a little glaze on them. tend to frost my hair when donuts become involved. Sometimes, in fact, my shoes get a little glaze on them.

It didn't occur to me till later that I was unwilling to dampen my turquoise blouse with melting ice but willing to risk a frosting encounter.

I had just finished up the second john when my first client arrived. She was tall and slim and as serious as a Hemingway novel.

I stood up and turned toward the door as she entered. According to her chart, she was seventeen years old, but she looked like a leggy fourteen who was trying hard for forty.

"Emily Christianson?" I asked.

"Yes." Her handshake was firm and quick, her complexion pale. There were purple crescents under her eyes. I smiled. She didn't.

"I'm Christina McMullen. Have a seat." I motioned her toward the couch. She went, turned, and sat slowly, sitting very erect on the ivory cushions. She was wearing a pale pink b.u.t.ton-up blouse tucked into black slacks that were cuffed at the bottom and neatly pressed. Her hair was dark, straight, and pulled into a high ponytail. Her lips were pursed in a somber expression that looked as if it had settled in for the long haul. "So, why are you here?"

She blinked at me. "I filled out the chart."

I didn't glance at it. It only stated the most rudimentary information ... just a little less than nothing. "So you came at your parents' request?"

"They thought I seemed stressed."

Ah, perception, thy name is parent. "Can you tell me why you're stressed?"

She shrugged. Economical and stiff, as if she were afraid the motion would take too much precious time. "Isn't everyone?"

Most were, but I had a feeling she brought it to collegiate levels. "You're a junior in high school?"

"A senior." Her lips pursed even more. "Accelerated cla.s.ses."

"Ahhh." I hoped to sound smart, because I had a feeling I was in the presence of an intellect that would make my own relatively impressive brain blush with embarra.s.sment.

"I'm hoping to be accepted into Harvard for my undergraduate courses."

"How come?"

She scowled at me, just the slightest lowering of her brows. "What?"

"Why do you want to attend Harvard?"

"Education is the keystone to success." She said the words very succinctly. I had once seen I, Robot I, Robot with Will Smith. Mostly in the hopes of seeing Smith sans shirt. Eureka! Not only had he been shirtless, there was a shower scene. I remember it vividly. I didn't recall the robots as well, but I believe they had spoken in a tone similar to Emily Christianson's. with Will Smith. Mostly in the hopes of seeing Smith sans shirt. Eureka! Not only had he been shirtless, there was a shower scene. I remember it vividly. I didn't recall the robots as well, but I believe they had spoken in a tone similar to Emily Christianson's.

"And how do you define success?" I asked.

She seemed a little confused. "The generally accepted definition, I suppose. A good career. A nice home. A decent financial portfolio."

She had a scant two inches of skin showing between her clavicle and the top of her blouse. Otherwise she was b.u.t.toned up tighter than Sister Margaret Mary on holiday. Even the cuffs at the ends of her long sleeves were secured over her narrow-boned wrists.

"What career are you considering?" I asked.

"I'll become a vascular surgeon." No equivocation. No "I hope" or "I might."

"So you're interested in medicine."

Her hesitation was almost imperceptible. "It's quite fascinating."

"So are crickets."

"What?"

I gave her a smile. This trying-to-act-intelligent stuff was already wearing on my nerves. "I've always thought crickets were fascinating."

She blinked. Her hands, white-knuckled with close-cropped fingernails, were clasped atop her lap. "You're interested in entomology?"

I didn't try to explain my sense of humor. She wouldn't be the first to mistake it for lunacy. "How long have you wanted to become a surgeon?"

She shook her head, an almost negligible toggle of her head. "For as long as I can remember."

I wondered how long her parents parents had wanted her to become a surgeon, but I wasn't quite ready to pose that question. "So your grades are good?" had wanted her to become a surgeon, but I wasn't quite ready to pose that question. "So your grades are good?"

"For the most part. I'm somewhat concerned about Physics."

Somewhat concerned. G.o.d save the children. "Ninety-two percentile?" I guessed.

Her mouth tightened a little more. "If I receive less than a seventy-nine percent I'm in danger of an A minus."

I nodded. There were no perfectionists in my family. In fact, there was some question regarding the actual species species of a couple of my brothers, but I had seen enough self-inflicted perfectionism to recognize it when it sat on my couch and clasped its hands. "Is that why you cut yourself?" of a couple of my brothers, but I had seen enough self-inflicted perfectionism to recognize it when it sat on my couch and clasped its hands. "Is that why you cut yourself?"

It was all guesswork. I knew almost nothing about her, but the signs were there if anyone wanted to see them.

I wouldn't have thought she could get any paler. Wrong again. She shifted her arms the slightest degree, but refrained from tugging down her sleeves. The epitome of self-control.

"They were only superficial incisions," she said. "And just once."

I nodded and settled in.

"Ms. Christina?"

I jumped, spun around, and jammed my spine up against the door of my humble domicile. Maybe that seems like dramatic behavior, but I'd had one h.e.l.l of a day at the office, and sometimes I prefer to know ahead of time when people are planning to kill me on my front stoop.

In this case, however, my visitor was just my next-door neighbor, Ramla Al-Sadr. Her attire had changed somewhat in the past few years. She no longer wore the traditional robes and full-face veil. Now she favored pretty head scarves, and colorful gowns. Although, she had informed me years ago that virtually all Muslim women appreciated a nice G-string under their burka. Ramla had taught me a fair amount about Islam, but her very best attribute, in my own humble opinion, was the high unlikelihood that she would ever attempt to kill me. Still, it took some time for my heart to decide to remain in my chest.

"Yes. Hi. Ramla. Hi." I considered trying to shuffle the bag of lo mein and fried rice into my purse hand so as to hug her, but it was too bulky. "How are you?"

She stared at me, dark eyes somber. "I am not so very well."

"Oh?" Due to Shirley's early-morning long john offering, I had opted to skip lunch. Hence, the smell of lo meiny goodness was all but overwhelming. "What's wrong?"

"It is my sister."

I frowned, trying to focus on her words instead of noodles in white sauce. "I thought you said she was doing better. That she and her husband had made amends."

"That is what she told me."

I sighed and lowered the bag. Lo mein goodness would have to wait. "What happened?"

"I have no word from her in two weeks of time."

d.a.m.nit. I glanced toward her yard. It was, as always, groomed to gleaming perfection. Considering the wasteland of my own property, it was a small miracle she would even speak to me. "How often do you usually hear from her?"

"Once each week, without the exception."

"Maybe she's having phone difficulties."

"Then she would write the letter."

I was scrambling. "Maybe-" I began, but she shook her head.

"There is trouble."

There was something about the way she said the words that made the hair p.r.i.c.kle on the back of my neck. "What makes you so sure?"

"Aalia and I, we are more than the sisters."

"Still-"

"She is my Elaine."

I scowled.

"Elaine, your friend, if she were troubled, would you not know?"

In fact, we had proven that to be the case on more than one occasion. There was a weird connection between us. A closeness I sometimes thought I couldn't live without. My soul mate of the wrong gender. "Yes," I said, and quite miraculously, forgot about the lo mein.

6.

Hard work and talent are all well and good, but don't underestimate the power of trickery and deceit.-Gregor Gooding, Elaine b.u.t.terfield's most motivated agent Minutes later when I stepped inside, my vestibule was dark. Which probably meant that Laney was home. She didn't believe in wasting electricity. Which often meant that she also didn't believe in light. Elaine is a tree-hugger down to the sap-sucking little roots of her being.

I turned to close the door, still carefully juggling the lo mein.

"Babekins!" someone chirped.

I screamed as I spun around. And sure enough, there was Solberg. Short, balding, and barely human, he had burrowed into my home like an unwanted boll weevil.

"What are you doing here?" I was struggling to breathe normally. He was lucky my instincts were such that protecting dinner was more important than fighting intruders.

"I came to adore my stunning bride-to-be," he said.

"Why?" I asked, and checked the side of the bag, making sure no yummy juices had spilled.

"Why?" He grinned at me. Or maybe he had colitis. I believe the results can be similar. "Because she's the air that I breathe. The wind beneath my wings. The light of my-"

"Try not to creep me out," I said, and pressing past him, made my way into the kitchen.

Laney was there, setting the table. It looked as if she was just recovering from laughing at my expense. "Hard day?" she asked, far too smart to admit she habitually finds my grouchiness amusing.

"I actually thought it couldn't get any worse," I said, and she chuckled. Somehow my aversion to her betrothed completely failed to upset her.

"Jeen just stopped by to discuss the floral arrangements."