It was hot. Smothered by the air, a man stumbled through a dark room. Meager light swelled forth from a few undersized candles. It was hot.
Some sister of incense drifted through him. He took off his hat. He never took off his hat. His recent baldness embarrassed him.
Staggering into the center of the room, he was aware of a hand on his shoulder. The hand felt heavy and fleshy as it rested on the pale sticky layer between it and his bone.
"Carl? Are you all right?" Was it a siren who spoke to him? No, it was his wife, he knew that. He nodded and pushed her away. God, he wasn't going to lose his mind next was he? He'd already lost half his bodyweight and hair—the mind was all he had left. Not like it would matter…
A low chant entered his ears, reverberating in his chest cavity. His eyes rested on the flame of a candle. Hunched over and frozen, supporting himself with two hands on the back of a wooden chair, he waited, as he felt himself melting, melting away.
As his knees disintegrated into the floor, voice cut through the chant and made its way to the center of his brain. It was the siren. He had no idea what it was saying. He did his best to scream…
"What the hell have you done to me, witch?"
By the time the chaos began, Carl McNamara was dead.
Joan jolted out of her slumber. Above her head, an arrow vibrated. Easing her way up, she saw that it was sticking to the wall via suction cup. She whipped her head towards her door. Her eyes met an empty threshold.
"Sherlock!" She scrambled out of bed and, snatching the arrow from the wall, stormed into the hallway.
Standing in the hall, barefoot, but otherwise dressed, was the detective. Smiling, he gestured toward the bow in his hand.
"I see you have not taken up my request that you learn self-defense."
"Who else but you would shoot miniature toilet plunger at my head at eight o'clock in the morning?" She threw it at him. Sherlock danced to the side.
"Ever heard of expecting the unexpected?"
"Ever heard of not-being-an-ass?" Joan shook her head, smoothing her hair with both hands.
"Oooh, grumpy in the morning, I see." Sherlock clicked his tongue. "Would you feel better if I told you that your early morning efforts were not a waste?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Murder, Watson. Gregson has just informed me via text message that we have, yet another, cold-blooded psychopath in this marvelous city of ours. Yours, rather." Sherlock handed Joan his cell phone. Man dead. 6:47 AM. Weird. Joan tilted her head and narrowed her eyes.
"They know the exact time of death?" Sherlock bounced his head. "So he was killed in front of other people?"
"More or less." Sherlock took his phone from Joan. He reread the message, and then shifting his weight, raised his eyes to her, one eyebrow arched. Joan looked to the ceiling for inspiration.
"Poison."
"My thoughts precisely." Sherlock bounded across the hall and down the stairs. "I'll be waiting in the front. I've already put milk in your cereal."
Joan and Sherlock stood beside Detective Bell as a roll of yellow caution tape wove its way around the room. She was hungry, having thrown out her pre-milked cereal. Seven used candles sat before seven wooden chairs. The body of Carl McNamara sprawled behind the second chair from the door. Joan winced. She could see that even when living, Carl McNamara was the picture of death. A woman, dark-haired, with tawny skin and green eyes, sat in a chair, her entire body racked with sobs. A medical team surrounded her. So far, she hadn't spoken. The detectives turned to a middle-aged and bleach-blonde woman who, though trembling, was capable of conversation.
"Can you tell me what happened, Ms. Lindbar?" Detective Bell's pen hovered over a notepad. Sherlock, who had been examining the body, stopped to listen.
"Yes detective." She sniffled and took a deep breath. "We were in the sanctum, having a meditative session, when Carl walked in. He couldn't seem to keep balance, when suddenly he just-" Her voice broke. The detective waited. "I'm sorry." She said.
"It's no problem at all, Ms, Lindbar, at your own pace." She took another deep breath.
"He collapsed. By the time we realized, he was dead."
"Did he say anything before he died?" Ms. Lindbar started to speak, then stopped. She glanced at the woman in the chair. "Ms. Lindbar, did he say anything?" Wiping her eyes on her sleeve, Ms. Lindbar said,
"He said, 'What have you done to me, you witch?' But detective, if you're thinking Eleanor did this, you're wrong. Eleanor is the sweetest thing you'll ever meet, and a such a delicate creature. These last few months have been very difficult for her too."
"So far we don't think anything. How long did you know the McNamaras?"
"Five months. They started coming to our sessions when Carl was diagnosed with stage III pancreatic cancer."
"What exactly is a meditative session, Ms. Lindbar?" Sherlock walked over, his eyebrows knitted. Ms. Lindbar shrugged.
"It's a thing we do here at Panteras Wellness Center. It's to help people with severe emotional difficulties."
"Do you run the class?"
"Oh no. No, I'm not qualified."
"You certainly do not look like someone with severe emotional difficulties." Mrs. Lindbar tilted her head with an uncertain smile.
"Excuse me?"
"You care for your personal appearance, have two lovely children on your key-ring and your wedding ring is in sparkling condition. If I'm not mistaken, the earrings, quite expensive I may add, are new. Clear signs of a happy marriage and beautiful family. At the risk of being redundant, I repeat myself, 'You certainly do not look like someone with severe emotional difficulties.'" Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back and waited.
"N-no, I'm not. You're right, I am very happy."
"Why the session then?" Ms. Lindbar looked to Detective Bell, who gestured for her to answer.
"I myself had breast cancer two years ago. It's now in remission. I consider myself extremely lucky, not just for surviving, but for the support I received from everyone I met, even complete strangers. I couldn't have done it on my own. And now, I want, if I can, to give it back. To give the gift of life back. So I found Panteras."
"You're here as a role model." Joan said. Ms. Lindbar nodded.
"Of course, not everyone has my kind of luck. Carl, for instance." She snatched a glance at the body, and shuddered. "His business tanked right when he got the news. His wife was threatening to leave him, but once she found out, she felt terrible. The damage was done, though. Carl never forgave her. He couldn't. He was too worn down. He knew he was going to die."
"How could he know?" Joan asked. Ms. Lindbar shrugged.
"I've seen enough death. Humans have instincts. If someone knows they're going to die, really knows it, they're not often wrong. Which causes which, I have no idea. Is that all?"
"Yeah, that'll be all for now. Thank you for your help, Ms. Lindbar. We'll be in touch." Detective Bell nodded and turned to Sherlock. He glanced over his shoulder at Eleanor McNamara.
"So what do you think? Guilty or innocent?" Sherlock compressed his lips.
"Difficult to say. A proper motive eludes me."
"Yeah, why wouldn't she just wait for him to die?" Joan looked at Sherlock.
"Haven't the faintest."