“Who do you think did it, Professor?”
Stroking the golden stubble on his cleft chin, he narrowed his beady eyes to two, uneven slits. He stepped around the private, wood-laden library as if the dark, plush carpet were made of eggshells. His breathing sailed steady and true through the hush of the drapery and tome. The Professor stopped by the ample, mahogany desk and squatted until his spindly legs formed triangles. “Well, it’s hard to say. Are we sure no one was in the room at the time?”
“The door was unlocked.” Twisting the glass, brass knob, his faithful assistant, E.B., swung the stained door open.
“Right. And did the maid say she heard anyone?”
Exhaling the smoke from his half-smoked cigarette, the lanky sidekick pushed off the wall into a full slouch. His tattered trench coat hung off him like a dead thing, licking around his stubby legs as he walked. “She’s deaf, Professor. Her TV was on full blast all night.”
He knotted his thick brow. Bending over, the Professor examined the desk chair’s wheels closely. A calloused finger caressed the top plastic arch before moving onto the next. Finished with each, he straightened to examine the seat. “Anyone else home?”
“Sure, the cook, the butler, Senator and Mrs. Davis, their kids, but they’re all dead.” Hanging along the walls, E.B. sauntered as if he were a bum with no home. He stuck his hands in his pockets to keep from picking things up that he shouldn’t. Smoke from his cigarette caused him to squint. “Oh, Mrs. Peacock had tea with Professor Plum in the conservatory. And there’s a house guest.”
“Ah-HA!” The Professor pinched an invisible something between his finger and thumb. Holding it up, he focused on his discovery. “Would this houseguest happen to have dyed hair?”
“Possibly, yeah.”
“Black?”
“How do you know?” Stubbing out his cigarette in a free-standing, marble ashtray, E.B. rolled his shoulders before sighing. He rubbed his fingertips together.
The Professor’s grin said everything about smug and nothing of humility. He bobbed his eyebrows. Pulling a small envelop from his coat’s interior pocket, he dropped the unseen hair into it. “Tell me more of this house guest.”
“There’s not much to tell.” Turning his back on his friend, E.B. pushed his glasses up his round face before fingering the spines of books along one wall. Bookcases dominated from floor to ceiling. “She’s the only body missing.”
“How do you know there was a guest and she was killed?”
“Guest bathroom’s covered in blood and towels. Bed’s been slept in.”
The Professor halted dead in his track of examining the chair back. “Explain to me why she isn’t a suspect?”
“I don’t know. I’m telling you what the police told me.” Stepping sideways, E.B. continued to inspect the dictionaries and writing references on the middle shelf. He smirked. “Do you really think a house guest would cause all this carnage?”
“Are you kidding? Who else could’ve done it?” Standing, the Professor pulled the chair with tender, loving care away from the desk. Grinding out a faint, dying squeak, the wheels moved over the floor as molasses would over flypaper. He stepped into the space it occupied. On the desk top, stacks of books flanked various leather bins that hoped to keep things organized. In the center of the desk pad, a small, grey laptop slept with its screen folded closed. “She’s the only one who’s still sucking air.”
“How do you know the guest’s a she?”
“Well, three reasons. One,” glancing back over his shoulder from under his unkempt mop of hair, the Professor waved to the chair behind him, “the indentations in the leather seat are from a female shaped ass – “
“Oh, you’re so full of sh– “
“Two, the black hair dye used is marketed to females who shop Hot Topic. I recognize the blue to black ratio. Plus, the lack of damage to the hair tells me it wasn’t purchased at a drug store.”
E.B. blinked. “Eh, okay, maybe. What’s the third thing?”
“The amount of towels in the guest bathroom. It’s a horrible stereotype, but it’s true. Women use more towels than men.”
“Pig.” With a grin and shrug, the sidekick slipped along the bookcase. He skimmed the dust covered bindings as if a clue would pop out. His gumshoe ambling brought him closer to the desk. “Well, let’s say you’re right. The house guest’s a she and she’s alive. How do you know she wasn’t kidnapped by the real culprit?”
“No signs of forced entry. No indication of anyone other than family or help have been in the house besides the house guest. No eye-witnesses claiming to see a stranger in the neighborhood.”
“Hey! I thought you said you didn’t talk to the cops!”
The Professor chuckled. Sliding his fingertips along the new laptop, he unlatched the lid. His eyebrows rose, bunching skin to steal his youthful appearance. The computer’s fan whirled as he pushed back the screen. Waiting for the black screen to buzz to life, he lifted the front edge. He peered underneath the laptop, scrutinizing the desktop beneath. “I didn’t. You have a loud voice.”
Propping his shoulder against the thick collection of Emily Dickenson, E.B. folded his arms. “Fine. What proof do you have that this houseguest did it?”
“Easy.” The Professor cleared his throat. Gingerly, he replaced the laptop. Much like a drunken ballerina, he swung in place to face his friend. “The Davis’ are a wealthy family by all aspects of their home. They come from a societal background. Based on their zip code, various awards and pictures in the hallway, I would say they are old money.”
“Fair enough,” smirked E.B. “Easy enough.”
“Old money means old customs – like supporting the arts. Writers fall into that group.”
“I’m gripped by your snappy deductions here.” Rolling his eyes, E.B. slouched more.
With a flourish, the Professor waved to the small laptop on the oak desk. The bright screen showed a blank page of a word processing program.
“Yeah?” Scowling, the sidekick snorted. “That doesn’t mean anything. She – if the culprit’s a she – could’ve been writing an email or love letter or grocery list.”
“Unlikely. You see, the page is blank. Everyone in the house is dead.” Clucking his tongue, the Professor pulls a pack of cigarettes from his overcoat. “I can’t believe you can’t see this.”
E.B hung his jaw open. His eyes blinked to clear his line of vision. Pushing off the bookcase, he sauntered over to the writing desk. He bent and peered into the blank page, tilting his head this way and that. He stood up, staring. “I don’t see anything.”
“And this is why they call me and not you.” Lighting his cigarette, the Professor clicked his beaten silver lighter shut. He exhaled a long, steady stream of smoke.
“Funny, I’m the asshole that answers the phone.” Smirking, the sidekick strolled over to the door. He peered out into the hallway to see if anyone else was about it.
“Deep indications still visible – “
Snapping back into the room, E.B. pointed at the Professor. “Only to you.”
“- on the chair indicate sitting at length at this desk. If she sat here so long, where are the words she wrote? If she saved it and took it with her, why is there a blank page? Why not just close the program?”
Throwing his arms up, E.B. shook his head to whatever psychotic deity looked down. He shot his friend a glance, indicating how little he cared for this exposition shit.
The Professor chuckled, dragging on his smoke. “Writer’s block. Severe writer’s block.”
E.B. froze with his jaw dragging the floor. “You’re saying writer’s block caused all this?”
“Yep.” Shifting from one foot to the other, the Professor rocked into a slow walk. Heading through the door and down the hall, he didn’t check to see if his friend was in tow. “Depending on the author herself, the pressure of a deadline could easy cause anyone to snap. Success and failure hang from her fingertips – and if nothing comes out of her head that’s even remotely useful – well, depression, fragility of ego – it explains the amount of blood everywhere.”
“She couldn’t beat the page, so she killed everyone in the house.” Trailing, E.B. knotted his brow unconvinced. His shoulder brushed along the frames of pictures, awards and memorabilia lining the walls, knocking a few askew. The hallway emptied out into the foyer. Black and white tile echoed their footsteps, capturing the attention of the police guarding the second floor.
Stopping at the bottom of the winding, split staircase, the Professor spun as he pressed his cigarettes to his thinned lips. Inhaling, he paused as his eyes darted about the room. “If she had a typewriter, I’m sure she would’ve beaten everyone to death with that.”
“What makes you say that?” Nodding to the flatfoot on the mezzanine, E.B. kicked the bottom, carpeted step. His shoulders draw up with tension. Looking up to the second floor, he waited for word to pass to the chief.
“Easier to hold and swing – more weight per blow.” The Professor used an under-arm swing of an imaginary typewriter to clunk his companion’s jaw. He screwed a sardonic smile before taking another drag from his smoke. “These new laptops – so light weight. There’s no point in having one if you’re just going to kill people.”
“I don’t think that was her goal. By your assessment, she’s a writer, not a killer.”
“No, I don’t think she came here to commit any crime.” Clearing his throat, the Professor glanced over shoulder. He nodded to the silver vase, crystal egg and various masterpieces that announced the Davis’ level of wealth. He smiled as he leaned into his friend. “But out there, right now, is a writer bent on destruction, all because she can’t write.”
© Mary Lewys, 2006
