Chapter One
To Shannon Holmes he was never quite the man. I never heard her say his name in that way. She certainly thought highly of him and held him in a much higher regard than the rest of his sex. However, she definitely did not feel any emotion near to love for Ian Adams. Most emotions, and that one in particular, were in direct contradiction to her cold, precise, but abundantly intelligent mind. She was, in my opinion, a perfect reasoning and observing machine, but as a lover, she would have been utterly out of her element. She never spoke of the so-called "softer passions", save with a vicious snort or a scowl. They were an excellent way to find the reasons for people's motives and actions, but as an objective observer she could not allow these intrusions into her own personality. Doing so would cast doubts upon her mental results that would be almost more disturbing than a crack in her eyeglasses or a devastating computer virus. And yet there was Ian Adams, of worthy and respectable memory.
I had not seen very much of Holmes lately. Our classes drifted us away from each other. We would occasionally pass each other in the morning on the way to coffee, or out the door, but I never got much more than a mumble or a nod from her, as she was most definitely not a morning person. I spent most days cavorting through Chaucer and Shakespeare before adjourning to the Court Street Café for a latté and a laugh with classmates, or running to the library for a study group session.
Holmes though, who loathed every bit of camaraderie and collegiate alliances with her entire soul, would, after class, remain in her dorm room in Brett Hall, buried in her old books, and alternating from day to day between marijuana and ambition. From time to time I heard vague rumors of her doings—ejecting a too-aggressive date from an unwilling freshman girl's room (as well as a loud beau from a too-enthusiastic sophomore's dorm adjacent to mine), discovering just who had kidnapped the school's mascot from his cage (referred to on campus as "the curious incident of the bobcat in the nighttime"), a consultation on the matter of the Atkinson twins' eventual expulsion for making pipe-bombs in their room. Beyond these signs of her activities, which I learned from second-hand accounts and gossip in the elevators, I knew next to nothing of my friend and resident assistant.
One night in early October I was returning from a particularly heinous essay exam when I got an overwhelming urge to go to Holmes' room before retiring to my own. Her room was brightly lit, and, even as I looked up before entering the main doors of our building, I saw her tall stark figure pass twice in a black silhouette against the mini-blinds. She was pacing the room quickly, brusquely, with her head sunk upon her chest and her hands clasped behind her. I took this as a good sign. Knowing her as well as I did made me a great interpreter of her moods and habits; her attitude and stance gave them away to me. She was at work again. She had come out of her drug-addled idleness and was hot upon the scent of some new problem. I took the elevator to our floor, deposited my belongings in my own room, and knocked on the door of 221.
She did not rush to the door and embrace me; indeed, if she had, I might have placed my hand upon her forehead to test her for some kind of brain fever. Still, I think she was happy to see me. With no words spoken but with a fleeting half-grin she waved me to the futon, tossed across a pack of cigarettes, and indicated the Cokes in the refrigerator. Then she stood before the window and looked at me in her distinct, introspective manner.
"Scholarship suits you," she observed. "I think, Watson, that you have lost five pounds since I last saw you."
"Four," I replied.
"Actually it looks like a little bit more. And writing again, I observe. You didn't tell me that you'd been writing articles about us for the Messenger."
"Then how do you know?"
"I see it; I deduce it. How also do I know that you have not been eating much, have stopped seeing Mark Morgan, and that you are getting low on funds?"
"Holmes, you're too much," I said. "If you had lived in Salem a couple of hundred years ago they would have burned you at the stake. It's true I haven't really had time to go to the cafeteria lately, and my mom hasn't sent me any money recently, but I can't see how you figured all that out. And it's true that Mark and I decided to take a break, but how did you know?"
She chuckled to herself and picked at a hangnail on one long finger before answering.
"It's really easy," she said. "My eyes tell me that, not only have you lost weight, but also your clothes are getting to be a lot looser on you. You've tightened a notch on your belt. They are also distinctly wrinkled and—" here she sniffed, loudly. "—a bit ripe, indicating your shortage of money. You have not been able to buy extra food or to take a trip to the Laundromat, because you can't afford it. And, knowing you, you have been spending so many hours at the library that you have missed mealtimes—I certainly wouldn't know because I do not attend them regularly myself."
I snorted.
"You can also see my continuing deduction. You have become very poor in your hygiene habits—also a result of your forgetful mother being remiss in sending you your monthly checks (you really ought to call her once in a while, Watson)—thus causing you quite a bit of embarrassment, and if I may say so, shame. So you have temporarily broken with Mr. Morgan, because you don't want him to see you in such a state. I have not smelled his particular brand of cologne in our hallways for several weeks."
I could literally feel the furious blush burning on my cheeks.
"You know you can borrow some of my clothes," she said, with a grin. "I'm sure I've got something around here that would fit you."
I didn't doubt it. Her personal clothing, though it might fit me in the waist, would be yards too long in the legs and arms and much too small in the hips and chest. She had scads of clothing in closets and trunks shoved into every corner and crevice of the room that was not taken up with books or some strange sort of paraphernalia. I could certainly find something that would fit.
"Thank you, Holmes. I'll look. But how did you know about my articles? I haven't even seen you to tell you."
"Have you forgotten that I read every newspaper in this town, daily, as well as the school's online blog and the gossip columns?"
I couldn't help laughing at the easy way she explained her process of deduction. "I always feel so dumb after you explain this stuff to me. Every time you do one of these observations it always confuses me until you explain how you did it. But Holmes, your eyes are way worse than mine."
"Oh, sure they are. Thank god for contacts," she replied, lighting a cigarette and throwing herself down into an inflatable chair. "But you see, not observe. There's a huge difference. Uh, I'm sure you've seen all the doors to the rooms that lead up this corridor to mine?"
"Oh, all the time."
"How often?"
"Well, every day."
"Then how many are there?"
"How many!" I exclaimed. "Jeez, I don't know."
"Yeah! You haven't observed. But you have seen. Now, I know that there are fourteen doors going down the hall leading up to this room at the end, seven on each side, because I have both seen and observed. By the way, since you're always so interested in these little events that come my way, and since you so enjoy writing about our little adventures, you might find this intriguing."
She stretched over to hand me a pink post-it that had been stuck to her chair. "Someone stuck it to my door," said she.
The note was undated, unsigned, and had no address, e-mail or otherwise, on it.
It said: "Hi! I'll be stopping by tonight around 8. I have a little problem I'd like to ask you about. I heard about how you helped the dean in all that tax evasion garbage, so I know I can trust you! Please be there if you can—and don't think I'm weird if I'm wearing a cape or something—I'll be coming from play practice."
"What do you think it means?" I asked.
"I don't have enough info yet. You should never try to form a theory before you have all the relevant information," she replied. "But the note itself. What do you deduce from it?"
I carefully examined both the writing and the paper.
"Well, it was a girl who wrote it," I said, trying to use my friend's own methods. "The writing is really flowery and light. And—eww—she dots her I's with hearts. The paper's kind of stiff, too." That's a little strange."
"Good job. It's not strange though, it's particular," Holmes replied. "Hold it up to the light."
I took it to her desk lamp, and saw the outlines of a large cat-like thing, a megaphone, and what was apparently supposed to be a pom-pom embedded in the paper.
"What do you make of that?" asked Holmes.
"Your future visitor is a cheerleader?"
"Excellent," she said. Her eyes sparkled and she sent up a great blue cloud from her cigarette. "And who, Watson, on our floor is a cheerleader?"
I had to think. "Uh, that little blonde at the end of the hall—what's-her-name?"
"Tiffany."
"Yeah, Tiffany. Who else? Oh! That freshman right next door to me, the really pretty red-headed one with the green eyes. My friend Christina hates her—Wendy!"
"Exactly. So which of them is it?"
Um. "I have no idea, Holmes."
"Oh Watson, what have I said? All you have to do is think. To see and observe. The note said that the person was coming from play practice."
I thought for a moment. Tiffany was a tiny thing, a cute, athletic blonde with a perpetual tan. I had spoken to her once or twice but didn't know much about her other than that she seemed quite shy. She did not speak much to anyone on our floor; generally all of us were friendly and I was actually a reasonably close friend of one of the other girls, Christina Tanaka. Though Tiffany was a considerably more social person than Shannon Holmes, she mostly kept to herself. In all, she did not seem to be the type to be a thespian.
"It's Wendy," I said quickly.
"Are you sure?"
"Um…yes?"
"Really, Watson, I thought it would be easier for you than me. I have minimal contact with these girls unless they come pounding on the door for some damn thing or another, but it seems that I have observed somewhat more of their habits than you have."
"So it's not Wendy?"
She stubbed out her cigarette. "No, and I will tell you why. You yourself did remark upon how pretty Wendy is. Surely you can see that you wouldn't be the only one."
I stared at her, trying to imagine what she was trying to say. Then it hit me, and again I felt stupid. "Wendy's got a boyfriend, or boyfriends."
"Ye-es. If you would remember correctly, both you and Christina have even told me about them coming in at all hours. If you'd search your brain, you'd recall like all the rest of us unfortunates on this hall, the sounds of, ah, love—" she almost spat this word out—"that we frequently hear coming from her room."
Now I felt like a complete idiot. I had whined and complained to Holmes more than once about Wendy's nocturnal activities, and I knew that the other girls on our floor had, as well. She was, to be frank, the slut of Brett Hall and I couldn't believe I had forgotten. Apparently that rumor about Holmes physically kicking someone's boyfriend out of the dorm was true, if her attitude was any indication. I did not feel this was the time to ask.
"So, it can't be Wendy because she spends the majority of her time in other, um, pursuits of pleasure, and doesn't really have time to be in plays." I sounded dejected even to myself.
A quick smile graced Holmes' marred features. "Don't be so hard on yourself, Watson. You've been preoccupied, I know. Who cares about the soap operas of Brett Hall when the escapades of Shannon Holmes are begging to be written?"
"Ha, ha. Do you really hate them that much?"
"Of course not, Watson, dear. I just wish you'd stick more to the facts of the cases instead of trying to sensationalize things in order to make a better story. I'm sure your readers would appreciate knowing how it really is to sit for hours in a car waiting for some bloke to come out of a Jiffy Lube."
"God, the Collins case! That was the most tedious thing ever, Holmes! I thought I was going to die on the spot from hours of inhaling your stinking second-hand smoke fumes. That was so boring."
"We got him though, didn't we? Ah, it doesn't matter. Here's our visitor." She sprang up to get the door. I had not even heard any footsteps approaching.
"Do you want me to go?" I asked as the knock sounded.
"No! You know I'm lost without my—uh, my Watson, and you can probably give some advice, too. Stay right there."
"Come in!" said Holmes brightly, as she opened the door.
A girl entered who could hardly have been more than five feet two inches in height, with a tiny waist and short, muscled legs. I am taller than a lot of women I have known, my own mother and Christina especially, but Holmes generally dwarfs every female she encounters and a lot of men, actually. Tiffany was no exception. Holmes looked like some kind of freakish giant compared to her.
Tiffany was wearing some sort of 19th-Century gown, with puffed sleeves, a lace neck and collar, and an ankle-length skirt. It was a deep burgundy, with stitches of black. From the way she was walking, she was unused to the material, the length of the fabric, and the obviously tight corset she was wearing underneath all the layers of the dress. She almost went sprawling as she came through the door, but Holmes caught her arm and prevented the accident.
"I'm sorry! You got my note?" Tiffany asked, in her high-pitched, little girl's voice.
"Yes," Holmes replied. "Sit down." She indicated the futon where I was still sitting.
"Oh! Hi, Jordan. I wasn't expecting to see you there." Tiffany turned back to my friend. "Um, Sha—I mean, Holmes, I kind of wanted to talk to you alone."
I started to stand but Holmes walked behind me and put a hand on my shoulder to push me down. "Whatever you have to say, you can say it in front of Watson. If not, you know where the door is."
"Okay…but do you both promise not to tell anyone about this?"
"I promise," Holmes said, not even bothering to hide her amusement.
"So do I," I said.
Apparently satisfied, Tiffany started talking immediately. "Sorry about this outfit. I should have changed first, but I wanted to get over here right away from play practice. I'm playing Mary in The Sign of Four—"
Tiffany obviously did not understand Holmes' quick bark of laughter, so she went silent as she settled in beside me, smoothing out her long skirts.
Holmes sank down into her inflatable chair, which gave an audible hiss, closing her eyes as she arranged her long legs beneath her.
Tiffany glanced at me in surprise at this lazy, uninterested figure. She had probably been told about some of Holmes' energetic exploits (and had maybe read some of my accounts) and so likely expected an enthusiastic response to her story. Holmes slowly reopened her eyes and looked impatiently at her tiny client.
"If you would please tell us your story," she remarked. "We could help you much faster."
"Oh, but, it's just so embarrassing! Nobody can find out about this."
Holmes waved a hand in the air, closing her eyes again.
Tiffany sighed. "Well there's this boy—"
"There usually is," Holmes said, dryly.
"—that I kind of dated for a little while. His name is Ian Adams. I don't know if you know him?"
"Grab a yearbook, would you, Watson?" Holmes asked, without opening her eyes.
I went to Holmes' bookcase and took out the newest yearbook. "He's a junior this year," Tiffany informed me.
I handed the book to Holmes, who flipped to find Ian Adams' name in the index. "Let me see," she said. "Hmm…some track and field, dean's list, drama club—I would assume that you and this, ah, boy exchanged some explicit letters, maybe some e-mails or IM's, and now you want them back?"
"Yeah! But how—"
"Did he ask you to marry him?"
"No, of course not," Tiffany said, with a frown.
"So you have no ring? And no kind of legal documents or prenuptial agreements or anything?"
"Nooo-"
"Then what is such a big deal?" Holmes demanded. "I don't think this chap can use the letters to blackmail you; how would he prove they were real?"
"My handwriting?"
"Pfft. He forged it."
"I used my own stationery."
"Stolen."
"How about e-mails and IM's?"
"He hacked in and got your password."
"My picture?"
"Photoshopped it."
"We're both in it. And unless it was a really good, professionally well-done manipulation…"
Holmes sat up. "Ooh. Now that's very bad. You were really…indiscreet?"
Tiffany sighed again. "We were drunk. I was pretty nuts."
"You've really…compromised yourself?"
"Yes, it was totally stupid. I was only a freshman."
"You've got to get it back, then," Holmes said.
"I've tried!" Tiffany cried.
"You'll have to pay for it—probably a whole lot."
"He won't sell it!"
"Well, steal it!" Holmes exclaimed.
"I've already tried five times!" Tiffany wailed. "I had some frat friends break into his dorm and ransack it. My friends went through his bookbag in class once. I even got into his car! There was no sign of it."
Holmes laughed. "This is quite an attractive little dilemma." I cannot be sure, but I swear she actually winked at me.
"Oh, but it's really serious!" Tiffany moaned.
"Apparently. What's he going to do with this picture, anyway?"
"Completely ruin my life! I'm getting married next summer, to Claude Lothman."
"Not Lothman, as in Lothman's Department Store?" I asked.
"Yes," Tiffany replied, glancing at me as if she had just remembered I was there. In fact, she probably had.
"I'm sorry, who?" Holmes asked, with one eyebrow raised.
For all her talk about observation and deduction and all the newspapers and crappy tabloids she read, sometimes she had no clue when it came to current events and she certainly had no idea and did not care about the society pages. "They're extremely prestigious," I explained. "Super, mega-rich, 'old money' family. Kind of like the Midwest Kennedys, without, you know, the politics and the women and the murders and stuff. They own the fourth largest department store chain in the upper 48 states."
"Third largest," Tiffany corrected me. "Claude's father is very powerful, obviously, but he's also very strict. He's not thrilled that we're getting married in the first place, and this picture—"
"And Ian Adams?" Holmes asked.
"Threatens to send it to them! And he'll totally do it, without a doubt. He's got a soul of-of-"
"Steel?" Holmes suggested, flashing teeth at me.
"Of titanium. He's absolutely gorgeous but completely ruthless."
"Are you sure he hasn't sent it already?" I asked.
"Yes. He said he would send it the day that our engagement announcement is in the paper. That's Friday."
Holmes yawned. "Oh, well, that means we have three days left. That's good, because I have some other things I need to do. You'll be around, right?"
"Yeah, if I'm not in class or my room, I'm at cheering or play practice."
"Then I'll let you know what's going on."
"Great!" Tiffany squealed.
"And, um, about payment?" Holmes asked.
"Oh, sure." Tiffany whipped out a Hello Kitty checkbook from somewhere in her skirts and wrote a check for Holmes. Holmes wrote her a receipt in a small notebook.
"Which dorm does Adams live in?" Holmes asked.
"Brion," Tiffany answered. Holmes wrote it down.
"One more question," she said. "This picture is…graphic?"
"Yeaaaah," Tiffany replied. "A little."
"Hmm. Well, good night, Tiffany. I think we'll have some good news for you."
Tiffany bounced off down the hall, seeming to float off on her voluminous skirts.
Holmes sat back down in her chair, shaking her head as she did so. "One would think," she said, "that in this enlightened age, a girl would know better than to get herself embroiled in such a situation. Of course, she probably thinks she can buy her way out of whatever bad scrapes she get into." She waved the check in her fingers.
There was silence for a moment, until Holmes came out of the funk she seemed to be sinking into. I did not know what she was thinking about, but I suspected it had less to do with Tiffany "embroiling herself in such a situation" and more to do with Holmes' own personal issues, of which she had many, of which she would never talk about.
She did smile briefly at me. "I think I will say goodnight to you too, Watson. If you'll come over here tomorrow at three, I'd like to discuss this more with you then."
"Quite a scandal, isn't it Holmes?" I teased as I walked out the door.
"Quite so, my dear Watson," she smiled, glancing briefly at the framed poster of Basil Rathbone in The Hound of the Baskervilles that adorned one wall of her room. "I may have to dust off my deerstalker for this one."