Game, Set, Murder Read online

  Game, Set, Murder

  Judith Mehl

  A Handwriting Analysis Mystery

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Pennystone Books

  Game, Set Murder

  Copyright © 2012 by Judith Mehl

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations. For information/permission contact the publisher, Pennystone Books, at www.pennystonebooks.com.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  To my husband

  Who adds breath to my life

  The clue provided at the beginning of each chapter compresses information taken from the title given and is not an exact quote. The illustrations of the clues are to bring an understanding of the concept to the reader, and are not to be construed as valid models.

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to extend my heartfelt gratitude to

  Dr. Ellen Bowers, AAHA certified analyst, for her expertise in guiding me through the handwriting analysis clues of this book.

  Chapter 1

  Handwriting is a projection of personality, a mirror of one’s thoughts. It reveals strengths and weaknesses, and dark secrets.

  Katharine Everitt

  The scream and ensuing silence struck an irreverent chord in the otherwise tranquil morning hours on campus. Minutes earlier, Kat Everitt strode toward her office. Her four-inch stiletto heels tapped counterpoint to the construction noise from the new fine arts building. Students yawned in concert while they strolled in the woods on the edge of the university for their final field exam.

  The shrieks of terror—more than one now—came from the birdwatchers, all students in the Ornithology 301 class. Kat sprinted toward the sound faster than the reigning short distance track champion. She halted abruptly inside the thicket of trees. Students shouted, “He’s dead! A man under the trees.”

  Adrenalin pumped through her. She urged the students to stay back. Beneath the canopy of laurel trees she inched toward the man lying quiet and serene on an Indian blanket under a hemlock tree. She bent just enough to check for a pulse without disturbing the scene.

  Back on the path she dialed the local police on her cell phone, then campus police. Katharine, known to most as Kat, handled publicity for Mountain View University but murder was her sideline. She usually dealt with the dainty side of death, helping police pinpoint suspects through the use of handwriting analysis. Somehow it often turned personal. Last year she’d had the bad luck to see up close a professor found stabbed in his chemistry lab. This time, finding the body pushed her past her comfort zone.

  She recognized Edward Ambrose, the tennis tournament manager. Dying in his sleep wasn’t a likely demise for such a cantankerous person. Ambrose irritated her nerves like scratching with steel wool ever since he began running the Mountain View Men’s Championships five years ago, but the tournament meant needed resources for the university, and the manager made it happen despite his prickly personality.

  Mentally setting their differences aside she said a prayer, then turned her mind to practical matters. His death at the beginning of the tournament brought trouble. She quickly called her boss, who would want to control publicity.

  Scanning the surrounding area for clues, Kat noted the sparse grass and hard ground under the thin blanket of hemlock needles. No possible footprints there. But no drag marks. He probably died where he lay.

  Her senses heightened, Kat smelled the damp earth, and sweat of August in the Poconos. Even the bumblebees lazed about, too slow to frighten human neighbors. The verdant leaves of laurels dominated the landscape, their bright glossiness unmarred by the morbid happenings played out beneath.

  She mentally reviewed what she’d seen and heard just before the screams. Serenity. Nothing out of place. That all changed when campus police, headed by Chief Raub, cordoned off the area to prevent students from pushing close.

  Kat told the police what she knew. Kat’s friend, Ryan, a stalwart and serious-minded campus cop, had gingerly stepped onto the blanket and checked for a pulse. He had little experience in that sort of thing while patrolling for students out on a binge or parking in an unauthorized lot, but he announced, “The body is colder than an ice cube and clammier than a thirteen-year-old boy’s hands on a first date.”

  Kat rolled her eyes and assessed the situation. Her boss, Public Relations Director Tom Edberg, pulled in behind the police. His car skidded to a stop on the graveled road abutting the property. He launched himself into the scene. A substantial man, with an intense scrutiny that could be disconcerting to those who didn’t know him, Edberg ignored Kat and looked for the highest authority, the director of campus security. Kat’s eyes roved the scene until they found her best friend, Madeline Girard, in a huddle with several students from the field study class. The males bounced up and down on their toes in nervous agitation; the women slouched forward, studying their shoes.

  The students moved away when she approached and it provided her and Maddy some privacy for a minute. No one dared call them Mutt and Jeff, but despite her long legs, Kat was definitely the shorter of the two. Maddy frowned down at her friend, then further down at her feet.

  “Only you would wear Jimmy Choo shoes to find a body in the woods.”

  “Maddy, I didn’t exactly have a murder on my schedule when I grabbed the sling backs. It was supposed to be a beautiful day. Besides, I didn’t find the body, the students did.”

  Kat’s friend whispered, “Do you know what happened?”

  “Not a clue. It’s Edward Ambrose, lying dead under that drooping hemlock tree. The area is hidden from the road but students doing field work for their ornithology class almost stumbled over him.”

  Kat studied the mingling students. “I bet that woke the darlings up. Have they told you anything useful? I mostly heard screams and whimpers.”

  Maddy glanced over the group, realizing the bird study bunch was now surrounded by an increasingly larger portion of the campus population.

  “Well, one dedicated female spurted poetry at me describing how they sought a flicker of life in the intertwined branches above until they spied death down below.”

  Kat held back the snickers in respect for the situation while Maddy pointed out a geeky looking male on the fringe of the crowd.

  “Eric said he still needed to identify the purple finch or the red crossbill for Welch’s ornithology class and wanted to know how soon they could get back into the woods.”

  She added, “Most of the students ran when they heard the shouting.”

  Before they could investigate further, the slightly paunchy chief detective, Richard Burrows, arrived. Kat gave him points
for discretion in not using the siren but stayed out of his line of vision. Though they were old friends, he seldom appreciated her presence at a crime scene.

  Kat headed toward the trees again, studying the hemlock. “I wonder how he died.”

  Maddy clutched Kat’s arm and halted her. As associate dean of the university she wielded discipline as second nature. “See those cops keeping people away? That means all of us, you included.”

  “You know Detective Burrows won’t mind if I take a peek.”

  “Yeah, right. Since when did you get off his persona-non-grata list? He hates your getting involved in his investigations, even though this might just be a natural death in an unnatural setting, so to speak.”

  Kat paused. “I’ve been very nice to him since that murder investigation I bungled. He’s probably forgotten it. Besides, if it wasn’t for my getting involved, they never would have found the killer.”

  She remembered how helpful her handwriting analysis had been in eliminating suspects for Burrows’ last case. An intriguing study, handwriting analysis not only provided her with a better understanding of friends and colleagues, but helped her examine behavioral characteristics, aggressions or tendencies toward violence. These abilities most interested Burrows, and she knew he was grateful beneath his gruff attitude.

  She decided not to approach him with a request. Instead, she eyed Ryan. He stood straight as a birch tree, the thick trunk of his neck abruptly ending in a cue ball smooth head. Ryan wanted to make a statement and had shaved off his hair. The cold demeanor worked to his advantage today because students and bystanders kept their distance.

  Kat knew Ryan since his eyes peered out from between boyhood shaggy locks seldom combed. She realized the bald head, the cop jacket, and the steel spine hid a marshmallow, and she inched behind him as he talked to several students. She reached an area where she could study Ambrose and the blanket without contaminating the scene. No bullet or knife wounds, not even excessive bleeding. She missed his ashen facial expression earlier but noted it now. Examining the blanket and surrounding area, she saw only a thermos and cup on the edge, his shoes shunted off to the side. Worse, she saw no note. To someone with her skills, it would easily reveal his state of mind and might indicate possible suicide. The blanket was a cheap replica of an Indian blanket, mass-produced, the colors bright and bold, a final shroud for a man whose life was wrapped in fake finery with little substance beneath. Kat halted her thinking. The thoughts were unworthy of her and unfair to a defenseless victim.

  She returned her mind to cataloguing details and perceiving nuances, forgetting how she rushed into work early because she’d been spending so much time on the tournament public relations. Death preempted any other university news.

  Kat remembered seeing Ed the day before, right after the opening reception. She’d stumbled past storage crates in the hallway and leapt over the delivery box near his office door. Loud and irritated voices became evident before she could knock. While she waited she wondered when she had last heard Ed not angry.

  The door had almost knocked her in the face as sputtering, Matthew Hightower marched away. He didn’t even acknowledge her existence. Kat had blinked, speechless, and backed out of his way. It shocked her to find it was the clean-cut Matthew that was slinging harsh words with Ed. Lack of artifice was part of Matthew’s nature, with skin normally stretched taut across his cheekbones and upward across an unfurrowed brow. At that time his face sported a nasty scowl.

  As she stood now in the dappled sunlight, she tried to picture the scene in the dead man’s office yesterday. What was available for foot space was littered with sprung tennis racquets and free sports gear, mostly neon tennis balls designed to blind the receiver before he could return the serve, or trip the unwary as they walked into Ed’s office.

  She’d deftly skirted around two such balls as she watched him spear a slice of grapefruit with a knife from a plastic container full of orange slices, cantaloupe chunks and more grapefruit. Turning toward her, he chugged a huge mouthful of tea from a thermos, grumbled over the paperwork and took it out on Kat. Renowned for nastiness, Ed’s bad temper and vicious mouth held many people at bay.

  Remembering Ed as he was just yesterday, she continued to scan the area while curious students occupied Ryan. A plastic container for food lay on its side in the underbrush just off the edge of the blanket. Though it appeared empty, the surrounding ants attempted a picnic of their own on the miniscule leftovers. Kat thought it might be the same container of food she’d seen the day before, with his feet propped on the nearest sport bag while he stared down the figures on the computer, defying them to change.

  His voice echoed in her head. “Ticket sales are down!”

  Ed’s infamous bark stood out foremost, and didn’t change when Kat had requested a signature on a publicity form.

  Now, as he lay on the blanket, he appeared to be wearing the same rumpled chinos and gold alligator shirt.

  Towering hemlocks canopied the dimly lit area surrounding the blanket and the deathly scene. Nearby, a silvery light reflected off laurel leaves, iridescent in the early morning. Here, deeper in the woods, one felt encompassed in a twilight world. She wondered how much of the eerie feeling evolved from the sagging hemlock tree, or the body beneath.

  She ended her visual search, stepped back behind the tape before anyone noticed, and returned to Maddy and Tom. Tom hadn’t gleaned much more information from Detective Burrows, whose expression narrowed in concern as he realized the increasing size of the student group.

  While he aided in crowd control, Kat pulled Maddy aside. “No note. Just our luck. But he’s wearing yesterday’s clothes, and it looks like the same fruit container.”

  Kat’s firm countenance reflected her resolve. Once her beloved university was threatened she never stopped till she deciphered the clues to untangle the mystery. Any death involving the university during a major fundraiser ranked as a number one concern. The tennis tournament garnered top honors in raising needed cash.

  Tom elicited Kat’s agreement to help inform the press, the tournament people, and students. He said, “Burrows is an old friend of your family, isn’t he? Do you think you could get any more information from him before I notify the university president?”

  Maddy snorted inelegantly. Kat suggested they go ahead and inform the president now and promise to keep him abreast of the investigation.

  She attempted to slip past the crowd and out of Burrows’ sight, but the man turned and beckoned before she escaped. A large jovial character, at least as jovial as a chief detective can be at a scene of a death, he nonetheless managed to acquire a glaring frown whenever he looked at Kat.

  “Katharine Everitt, I saw you ducking past my tape! Why can’t you stay away from my investigations? Save my heart some grief and give your dad some peace.”

  “Leave my dad out of this. He’s having a grand time fishing in Florida. He doesn’t worry about me like you do.”

  Detective Burrows scanned the area as he talked, making sure the students were dispersing as the silenced ambulance drove away.

  “Well, how much can you trust a man to worry who has a pet alligator named Artie? I thought he lost his marbles when he retired early from the police force, but it wasn’t until he spent his money on an alligator farm I knew he was a goner.”

  Kat grabbed the opportunity to edge away, but Burrows tromped behind like he was on a leash.

  “Now that he’s gone I’ve gotta’ look out for you, and that means keeping you out of my investigations, you hear?”

  She continued walking, but knew enough to throw a polite, “Yes, sir!” over her shoulder. She couldn’t resist adding, “But you know he’s made a fortune with that alligator farm. Artie is the only one he’s kept as a pet.”

  Her ploy failed to distract Burrows.

  “When you married Nick I thought you’d settle down and do the womanly thing, but no, now you’re skirting around even more trouble, with him being in that security
agency.” He left her no time to comment and went back to Ambrose’s death. “We haven’t found a note so we don’t need your analysis skills on this one; just fill me in on Ambrose.”

  “First, it looks like he died on university property. Lauri Carmichael sold off that strip of her father’s land last year.” She recalled how university officials jumped at the opportunity to expand their domain and gave a brief thought to Lauri who was romantically involved with Ed.

  Burrows motioned toward the small meadow by a deep stand of laurel intermixed with hemlocks near the victim. “Tony Carmichael owned all this land for as long as I can remember. Used to play kick-the-can in there when I was a kid.” The detective signaled to Ryan that he could leave and turned back to Katharine. “And Ambrose?”

  Since the detective relentlessly continued his pursuit Kat slowed to walk next to him, hoping to glean any information she could. First she offered some. “Well, you know he’s been the manager of the tournament for years. He was a mean, arrogant man with more enemies than a skunk in the parlor, but he didn’t deserve to die like this. How did he die by the way?”

  “No dice, Katharine. We don’t know, and if we did, we wouldn’t be telling you. You’re staying out of this one.”

  She recognized defeat and when she reached the car she fetched the tournament notebook stashed in the back. He asked, “So how many people are involved in this tournament? Seems like I heard the local hotels are booked.”

  Kat decided to cooperate in the hopes of information in the future. “Just about a gazillion, all told.”

  Chapter 2

  No one’s handwriting shouts “I’m cruel,” but some speak quite loudly as to propensity. Beware of club strokes, hooked strokes and black spots.

  “Handwriting Analysis: Putting it to Work for You” by Andrea McNichol

  “Satellite tennis is a vagabond lifestyle, a filter that takes in the sweetheart of the junior circuit, the college star, the pampered, and the poor back street player, and spits out a paltry few with enough points to join the big time.”