Emerson Ward Mysteries

Bob Marter was found in the early evening of April 15th, dangling by the neck on a length of half-inch nylon rope in the woods off campus. I know it was definitely the fifteenth because that is the birthday of a special friend of mine, and also the day that I -- along with numerous accountants, tax lawyers, postmen, and a few other feeble-minded idiots -- rend my scalp hairless in anguish as the IRS prepares to collect its annual take. One anniversary always serves to remind me of the other. Now I had a third event to remind me.
I spent the day in various throes of anticipation. I remembered to call that special friend, but hadn't wished her a happy birthday, preferring to do it in person when she showed up later in the evening. My phone call to her was to reconfirm my understanding of her plans and estimated time of arrival.
"Emerson, darling," she breathed with delight, "I'm glad you called. A slight change of plans, dear. Now don't get your hackles up -- I will be there, but not as soon as I thought. That beastly, lecherous old man -- J.B., you know -- can't stand to see me take my periodic leaves of absence. He's convinced I'm the only person in the civilized world with the ability to keep his office organized, meaning, I suppose, that if he didn't have such a dedicated and diligent research assistant digging up long-lost information, he wouldn't make as much money. And he swears that I'm the only woman he's ever known who thinks enough like a man to warrant the responsibility he gives me, the chauvinist swine. Anyway, I have a few more chores to do for the wretched man -- "
She was interrupted by the roar of a male voice in the background, undoubtedly the eavesdropping J.B. taking mock offense. There was a moment of muted exchange, then her clear throaty chuckle came over the line.
"Emerson? Sorry. The beast has big ears, menacing growl, and a heart like warm marshmallow. As I was saying, as soon as I'm done here, I have to run back to my apartment, then I'll be on my way. I should be able to make it up there by eight or so. I'm so excited! It's been ages, darling! Do have a drink and a birthday kiss waiting for me, won't you? See you when I get there."
She blew a kiss into the phone and hung up, leaving me with a silly grin and the feeling that if I ever lived a life as full and fast as hers, I would collapse of coronary occlusion after three days.
She's a striking lady, and my initial impression had not been unlike that of almost everyone else who has come into contact with her. I'd been in the Denver Public Library doing some background research for a magazine article I was writing. I'm not particularly fond of libraries, and it hadn't been my idea of a fun way to spend a warm, sunny October day far away from the Chicago brownstone I call home.
Libraries were interesting places to prowl on rainy days when I was a kid, where I could get lost in the stacks and the faraway places in the books on the shelves. Now, I find the atmosphere too confining, almost claustrophobic. The aura of tension created by people intently absorbing knowledge, concentrating on the fine print of yellowed manuscripts, maintaining total silence, makes me uneasy. I tend to do more daydreaming than work, aimlessly wandering through the stacks of my mind, occasionally picking out a title, dusting it off, and thumbing through a few chapters of memories past.
I'd forced myself to the task at hand that day, however, ignoring the sunshine outside the windows and the muffled tread of bibliophiles in the stacks. For nearly ten minutes, though, a presence had nagged at me, distracting my attention. I finally stretched back from the study table and idly tugged at my moustache, a vacant gaze belying the intensity with which I searched for the source of the disturbance.
She was sitting at the next table. I glanced over her without seeing anything unusual until the image finally registered, and my gaze quickly came back to focus on her. Her short, auburn hair was styled in a natural, utilitarian way that didn't looked mussed by the fingers running through it, idly toying with a strand here and there. She had a high forehead, a wide mouth with only a trace of lip gloss and expertly applied, sparing use of make-up -- even on the downcast eyes -- that merely enhanced her features. Her long slender fingers had neatly manicured nails with a pale translucent polish that made me glad she had a pencil eraser to nibble on as she concentrated on the documents in front of her. She wore a well-cut green linen suit, white silk blouse, and green silk scarf loosely knotted around her neck. A brown leather attaché case with a gold monogrammed "L.H." rested on the table at her elbow. All in all, a good-looking woman, but not the eye-stopping looks of the high fashion model. Rather, the kind that elicit double-takes like mine, a second, closer look to determine what it is about the apparently normal face that attracts attention. She had a purposeful and professional air, an aura of self-acceptance and confidence that suggested she would not try to make herself appear to be anything she wasn't.
She looked up from the table and gazed into space for a moment, and I was startled that even with the distance between us, I could see the color of her eyes - a deep violet. Her nose was just a tiny bit offset somehow, and it made her look slightly cross-eyed. I imagined that if she looked directly at me, it would seem as if she were focusing on something just past my left shoulder. She sighed and turned her face back to the pages in front of her. She intrigued me. Definitely a career woman. But in what field?
I took a walk. I'd gotten most of the information I needed anyway, so I gathered up the materials I'd obtained from the reference desk and sauntered in that direction, passing her on the way. I lingered briefly at the desk to thank the librarian, then walked slowly back to my table. I paused mid-way, about six feet behind and to the side of my mystery woman, and noted further details. No ring on the left hand. Handbag open, the cover of a checkbook visible with a name embossed in gold letters -- L. Hutchins. A faint whiff of musk, a very feminine scent in contrast to the brisk, straightforward appearance.
I moved on, amused with my predatory inclinations in such unromantic surroundings. I collected the remaining books on my table, dropped them off at the desk, too, and went wandering in the stacks, looking at titles, thinking I might find something of use or interest. Preoccupied with cramps that threatened to lock my head at a permanent 45-degree angle, I was startled by the sudden sound of falling books and a softly expelled expletive from the next aisle. Dragon slayer that I am, I trotted off to lend assistance. With purposeful stride, I rounded the end of the stack and ran right into the perfectly proportioned back end of a pair of violet eyes. I'm big -- bigger than I look. At six-foot-four and a shade under two hundred pounds, I look leaner and lankier than I am. So it was a solid hip-check that whirled her around and sent her tottering, toppling backwards to fall with a thump on that glorious rear. When the flying books settled, and the momentary shock was gone, I couldn't help laughing. Her violet eyes were bright with accusation, but if her pride was damaged, she made no attempt to repair it by scrambling up to straighten her suit and regain her dignity. Instead, she sat on the floor, eyes narrowing in exasperation. "I'm sorry," I said between chuckles.
"Of all the stupid..." she fumed, struggling for the appropriate words.
"Oh? And what makes you so smart?" I asked, extending a hand.
She looked at me curiously, as if weighing possibilities. "I wouldn't let you buy me coffee."
"I hadn't thought of asking."
"That is what makes you stupid."
"Miss Hutchins, I owe you an apology at least, and perhaps I owe you a cup of coffee as well. Both are yours to accept or decline as you see fit."
I gave her my most disarming nice-guy grin. Her eyes had widened momentarily at the mention of her name, and now they searched my face while the integrated circuits in her head sifted information and performed an almost infinite number of instinctual and mental calculations. I could sense the moment of her decision, could almost hear an audible click. Her eyes softened and her body relaxed.
"Maybe you're not so stupid after all," she murmured. Then she laughed that clear, throaty laugh. It bubbled up from deep inside her and sparkled cleanly in the hushed atmosphere. She took my outstretched hand, and I pulled her to her feet.
We had coffee in a booth of a luncheonette across the park from the library. She grasped my arm firmly on the way, and did a fair job of matching my long stride. In open-toed short heels, she came to the bridge of my nose, making her probably five-nine or so in her stocking feet -- a leggy girl with legs I rated highly, the kind that enhanced her overall effect. She had a brownie smothered under vanilla ice cream and fudge sauce with her coffee, which she consumed with an elegant ferocity. Her thoughtful meditation on one three-hundred-calorie bite provoked such trance-like pleasure on her face that I felt forced to make some inane comment about the necessity of dietary measures. And for the second time I heard her laugh.
Her name was Loral, not, I was informed, as in wreaths or resting on one's, but a variation of sorts. Her parents, Lois and Ralph, after nine months of indecision, had compromised on a conglomeration of their own names for their first-born. She told me that she was employed as an odd-job errand girl for a high-priced New York lawyer. James Arthur Bartlett, she told me, was a licentious old man who sent nice girls halfway across the country to look at old records. She was being a bit self deprecating. I'd heard enough about Bartlett to know that he was a maverick, an F. Lee Bailey type who went after tough cases and exceptionally large fees. His "errand girl" was a damn good lawyer in her own right.
Loral said she was in Denver to do some advance scouting on a potential case -- some sort of real estate dispute -- to determine its possible worth to J.B.'s repute and pocketbook. My estimation of what lay behind those violet eyes went up a notch. If that particular big-town, big-time counselor had entrusted someone else to dig up pertinent background on a case, his emissary must have a good deal of functioning grey matter upstairs.
We had another cup of coffee, but took it with us in Styrofoam cups out into the late afternoon sun. We sat in the park, chatting, watching the scurry of people in decision-making positions stride briskly up limestone stairs into the bureaucratic edifices of the capitol building on the hill and the court house at the opposite side of the park. Loral thought she would be in town for about a week or ten days before heading back east. I had planned to fly back to Chicago the following day. I walked her back to the library -- I took her arm this time -- and made my departure after leaving her one of my cards, the plain embossed one that simply said, "Emerson W. Ward" with my address and phone. I only half-expected her to call.
And now, a lifetime later it seemed, I spent part of a day on a college campus in upstate New York anticipating her arrival.