Game, Set, Murder Read online

  Kat continued, “So if your specialty is herbs and herbal preparations, and his is natural foods, don’t your businesses complement each other rather than compete?”

  Glinna winced, unconvinced, and offered the next logical question. “Okay, so if he’s not scoping out my store for business reasons, why would he hang around for so long?”

  Kat didn’t have an answer, but was literally saved by the bell as it jangled, signaling the arrival of customers. She rose with Glinna.

  “I’m sure you’ll be busy now, and soon it will be lunch hour with your usual crush of shoppers. Call if you need me. Let’s put our heads together later and decide if there’s anything we can do about your mystery guy.”

  Glinna nodded absently but walked toward the first customer, smiling.

  Kat headed back to work and strolled around the stadium. She enjoyed publicizing the tournament despite the long work hours. The tennis brought her outside as the summer days melded into autumn, and provided her the opportunity to meet midday with Nick, something not always possible.

  She waited and listened to the tournament sounds as she swatted away a bumblebee toying with her hair. Even when the ball was in play, there was never total silence during the matches. The sectioned off area where peddlers sold their wares hummed with activity. And peddlers they were, despite lofty names like Adidas, Bolle, and Penn.

  She and Nick hoped to catch at least one match and a late lunch before he headed back to the office. Kat loved it when he set the job aside for a few hours to be with her. His love of tennis made the tournament an ideal meeting place. The past year of establishing himself in his friend’s agency and creating a higher-end clientele base was taking its toll. Kat patiently waited while he realized that G. L. was so delighted to be working with his old friend that Nick didn’t need to prove anything. Her tall lean, husband and the shorter, stockier G. L. made more than a physical contrast. The coolly aloof G. L. fit his name perfectly—G. L. Petingill the Third. He was all business and professional.

  Caring eyes and a subdued manner softened the hard angles of Nick’s face. He and his friend’s different styles meshed well, and the agency, once all G. L.’s, was expanding rapidly after they joined forces. Nick brought his expertise from many years in cohort intelligence operations, and G. L. provided his years of friendship with almost everyone in town.

  Kat watched the vendors stock up their booths. She was proud of the coordinated efforts required to turn the tournament into a festival for the university. It didn’t compare to the lush paradise created for the Sony Ericsson Open in Key Biscayne, but the fan-friendly innovations provided a food, shopping, and entertainment experience that formed the highlight of the region at the end of summer. She watched a few players sign autographs, smiling as a young teen bubbled enthusiastically in line. Kat wondered if it would be worthwhile to gather a few autographs herself for analysis purposes. She promptly disposed of the idea, knowing that signatures revealed little about a character without more of a handwriting sample for comparison. The signatures too closely resembled squiggles as players rushed to end the session and head off to practice.

  Kat made the designated meeting place with only a minute to spare. Nick charged up the bleachers to join his wife as she settled into her favorite spot, under cover but open to the fresh air and feel of the stadium. She disliked the private university box and didn’t use it. Her eyes followed in admiration as Nick’s powerful frame made its way unerringly toward her. She felt his aura of strength, and speculated whether it came from his strongly carved features, or massive amounts of energy. He gave her a quick hug before sitting down, just in time for the opening round.

  They watched closely, sizing up the new players as they practiced. Eduardo Mendoza, the newest hit from Spain, paired off against Erik Jorgen, the long-standing Scandinavian player who reached close to the top draw numerous times but landed back in the Satellites to start the climb over again every couple of years. He was a favorite underdog, despite his strapped wrists, back, and knee injuries.

  As Mendoza warmed up, Kat nudged Nick. “Look at that! He’s a southpaw. Not too many of them left.”

  Nick said, “Did you know that only one out of ten tennis players is left handed? Some of the greatest players were.” He named Jimmy Connors, Rafael Nadal, as well as Goran Ivanisevic and Jurgen Melzer.

  Sloan and Joe, a professor in sociology, joined them just in time to hear the list and see the play begin. Their appearance prevented Kat from punching Nick on the arm. “Kat, Nick, remember Joe?” They quickly said their hellos and sat down. As they waited for the next play, Nick added, “The number one tennis ranking has been held by left-handed male pros over thirty per cent of the time, and by left-handed women, even more.”

  “But you didn’t name any women,” Sloan said, attempting to catch Nick short, though it was a rare occurrence.

  Without taking his eyes off the next serve, Nick said. “How about Martina Navratilova and Monica Seles?” He frowned for a second, then added. “And more recently, Iveta Benesova and Lucie Safarova from the Czech Republic.”

  Sloan groaned in defeat, though her eyes had already settled on the Greek god serving the ball. She smiled at Kat. “Sorry, I was trying to help. But not much gets past him.”

  Kat’s head swiveled back and forth as she gauged the play. “How does he remember all those statistics?” she lamented, but then she brightened. “Here’s one I bet Nick doesn’t know! “What doubles player is a righty-lefty?”

  “Bob Bryon of the Bryon brothers.”

  Sloan thought about her friends as they all enjoyed the match. Nick never dominated a conversation, but was always the one to answer questions whenever asked—and housed more trivia in his head than she had ever known.

  None of them minded that Nick retained so much knowledge. Sloan recalled how he’d drawn on past experience to pull Kat out of seemingly impossible situations before. His knowing everything about anything came in handy more than once.

  Kat’s vivacity attracted instantly, and with her ready laugh, and constant patter, made her the more outgoing partner in their get-togethers. She and Nick fit together by contrast. Sloan knew she’d have a good time. She watched Nick and Joe converse comfortably between plays.

  Nick’s confidence had returned with the successful change in careers. He looked around, savoring the day. He’d found permanency here, in this town, with the university and with this woman. He smiled at Kat, the depth of his love in his eyes. He was happy to return here, to this relatively obscure location, despite, and because of, the grand cities he’d moved through in his work. The bond with the university was strong. His marriage even stronger.

  Nick’s fondness of the university revealed itself as he and Joe spoke. They’d met briefly last year when Nick worked temporarily for the university. Prior to that he’d returned as much as he could over the years, to renew relationships and refresh his beliefs, and to check in with President Thomas Ludlow, his mentor and friend. Early on Ludlow whetted Nick’s appetite for world knowledge. Nick spent years in the cities around the world before appreciating the steel town where he’d grown up and that had forged him into a man who realized that the earlier world, this one, was all he needed.

  The Scandinavian faltered against Mendoza’s left-hand serve. It was a breakaway, roundhouse serve, wide in the ad court and hard to beat. Jorgen appeared to have some difficulty thinking in opposites. He drove a shot to what would have been a righty’s weaker backhand, only to have a cross court slice whiz past his head from the lefty’s forehand before he could recover.

  WHILE THEY TALKED and the ball bounced and the fans oohed, Kat analyzed what needed to be done to end the miasma of problems swirling around the death of Ed Ambrose and the bad publicity for the tournament. First, persuade Detective Burrows to reveal the ruling on Ed’s death. Was he murdered? Then sneak into Ed’s office for clues the police might have overlooked. Third, find handwriting samples of anyone who disliked the man. That would be the
most difficult since the list was long, but other times in the past her analysis of personalities through handwriting allowed her to pinpoint suspects and target the killer.

  Chapter 5

  Large capital letters represent ego and reveal pride. It can be a positive trait—self-esteem, idealism, or a negative one—such as vanity, and arrogance—enough to kill for?

  “Fast Facts Two” by Pat Peterson, C.G.

  Kat successfully managed to avoid Ed’s office until later that day. She knew Detective Burrows would have sent men to search the man’s business notes and paraphernalia shortly after finding the body. By waiting, she felt virtuous. She was staying out of the way. She hadn’t contaminated the scene. She hadn’t bugged the chief once with questions or phone calls, secretly hoping to evade police questions herself. Indulging in dreams of finding a clue lingering behind, she sought something unknown to the police, who were unfamiliar with the tournament, or tennis itself, or the nasty nature of Ed.

  The police were gone, but a sign on the door denied access to anyone. She immediately tried the knob. Of course, the police had also locked the door against those like her who ignored the warning. Before she could even consider a delicate break-in, she became aware of others peering around the corner at the sealed-off door. Behind them, barely visible, was David Nettle, the university tennis coach. When he saw her, he frowned deeply and turned away, frustration revealed in every stamping footstep.

  She wondered what he’d planned. Logically, he’d have a key and as tennis coach he’d be involved in the tournament. Maybe he was hoping to sneak in the door when no one was looking. Would it be worth her while to team up with him to see what was inside? Or was that scowl indicative of his attitude toward her? She decided not to follow.

  She realized how little she knew about Nettle and vowed to interrogate Dennis, the sports information director, at first chance. Dennis knew everyone and everything on campus related to sports. He could rattle off the latest statistics, and was almost as knowledgeable about lifestyles and crucial characteristics of key people, which would include Nettle. That would help her decide how to confront Nettle so she could learn more about Ed Ambrose.

  She and many others had steered clear of the tournament manager’s nasty personality. Now she was at a loss when analyzing the murder victim. She assumed he’d been murdered because of the unusual circumstances behind the location of the body. Kat knew she had been leaping ahead in her thinking, but she preferred that to lagging behind. She’d gather information on the pivotal characters as quickly as possible.

  She didn’t wonder why. Her nature spurred her to search for the truth in murky areas. Ed, lying in the woods, might not spell doom for the university, but the repercussions would be gloomy at the least. The truth behind what brought him there might uncover dark secrets best left in the underbrush, but Kat’s world didn’t function well without sunlight and clean landscaping, so-to-speak. She would do what she could to find out what happened.

  She stopped by Dennis’s office, near hers in the public relations suite, and found only his graduate student.

  “Hey, Jordan, what do you guys have on Ed Ambrose and David Nettle?”

  While he printed out the official information the department had on them, Kat studied the Venus fly traps in Dennis’s aquarium. His carnivorous plant collection drew attention from staff and students, and even attracted a few faculty members. She enjoyed watching the lively plants snap at their food as it descended. A frequent guest in Dennis’s office, she knew to look for the overturned cup always sitting in the corner, replenished often with fresh food for the plants. She quickly captured the enclosed fly, dazed from its long sojourn under the cup, and fed it to the open palms of the plant. The hairy tentacles delighted her anew as she watched them close over their prey.

  Jordan laughed as he handed her the printouts. “Dennis should start charging you for stealing his hard-caught flies!”

  She accepted the information, knowing it wouldn’t compare to Dennis’s knowledge but would be a starting point. “It’s urgent he call me when he gets back.”

  Jordan plastered a huge note on Dennis’s computer screen while she returned to her office, left the day’s reports on her desk and sought a quick cold drink in the dining room before leaving campus.

  Nettle and a woman were snacking at a small corner table. She studied him closely, guessing he was so engrossed in speaking to his partner that he wouldn’t see her.

  The man never broke a sweat. But then he wore the trendy tennis clothing all the time. The pros were beginning to shed their favorite cotton for the increasingly popular wick-and-wear performance-enhancing properties of a special polyester. The fancy stuff, with high price tags, looked the same but sported micro-fibers with moisture management quality. David wasn’t a pro, but he could dress like one. The outer trappings were all he had. He carried the latest Wilson TRIAD™ like a weapon in reserve, bounced on the newest K Swiss sneakers, and talked like a pro.

  He was good enough to keep the team winning more often than it lost, and was instrumental in bringing the tournament to Mountain View University. That was all the notoriety he would get, but it kept him in tennis balls and small town popularity.

  His face had thinned into a scholarly appearance, though an alert person would be wary at the narrow spacing of his eyes. She’d have to ask Dennis for Nettle’s writing sample. That handwriting would surely sport pride-revealing large capital letters.

  From her studies she believed handwriting analysis was a diagnostic tool to reveal the inner self, and assess traits such as dishonesty, lack of confidence, cruelty, and how one relates to others. It could be used in everything from crime detection to romantic compatibility. Kat employed it often to uncover particular traits that might lead someone to murder, aware those findings only revealed propensity. Meanwhile, she just observed.

  Black, curly hair covered his exposed legs, following a path into his loafers, ankles unmarred by socks. Nettle’s hairline receded sharply, the forehead winging out over the temples in twin peaks as he frowned at his date.

  UNAWARE OF KAT’S microscope, Nettle made a mental review himself. Tennis had been his life for years, but not by choice. He lived it now because there was nothing else. He dreamed of being a star, of film or TV. It didn’t matter as long as he was viewed by many with awe and love. He never forgave Edward Ambrose for taking away his chance. One vindictive moment by a casual friend and his life twisted in a fateful swirl from tennis and back again before he’d tasted the glory.

  Now he was a second rate tennis coach, of a second rate school in the east—too westerly to be considered a great eastern high-brow school, and too low-brow to attract the students with accents and designer sweaters to set off their letters.

  Here he was, seated next to a whispery blond, ethereal until one saw the tattoo. From her wrist, it curved around the thumb muscle, up the index finger and out, visible only in a moment of vulnerability when her hand opened wide. During a break in Nettle’s tirade, she spoke in waves to match her hair, the flow of her body following the curve of her words.

  He wasn’t really listening. He was enraptured by his own story, a spiteful tale laced with hate, his eyes venomous from remembrance. She didn’t know he was talking of ten years earlier; he exhumed the words with deadly accuracy.

  “But Ambrose lost in the end. I showed him,” he bragged, without divulging details.

  KAT ALMOST FELL over while attempting to lean closer and hear more. Just as she realized how conspicuously she was eavesdropping, David must have realized he was speaking carelessly. He switched topics faster than an Andy Roddick serve.

  She walked by to purchase her drink, concerned about what Nettle meant; the blond just nodded and smiled.

  Kat chose a daring gambit. She returned to his table and confronted him, in a polite demeanor polished from many years in public relations.

  “David, I need access to some of Ed Ambrose’s files for the tennis tournament. Can you loan me yo
ur key for a few minutes? I’ll return it right away.”

  She gave him credit. He didn’t sneer outright, but his laugh was close. “Fat chance. That rotund detective snarfed it up like I was going to skewer someone with it if I kept it a minute longer.”

  Before he could ask any embarrassing questions, Kat thanked him and retreated, cataloguing her thoughts. Nettle embraced flair and was ambitious and socially conscious. Unless Ambrose had found out something about the man that would shatter his façade, Nettle’s traits didn’t reveal enough reason to kill him.

  She made a quick stop at Glinna’s Apothecary to discuss the latest findings on the mystery man who had wandered around her shop so suspiciously the other day. From later phone conversations, Kat gleaned that Glinna was still concerned, but intrigued. As usual Kat browsed for new books and special lotions.

  “How good is this new book on the therapeutic use of phytomedicinals?”

  Glinna frowned. “I know I’m the shop owner and it’s my business goal to sell what I have in the shop, but do you really need another book on phytomedicinals?”

  “But this one is far more detailed and scientific than the one I have.” She placed the book back on the shelf and turned abruptly towards her friend. “I’m trying to find more information on which foods help lower blood pressure and which foods aggravate it. I’m convinced that someone was providing Ed just the opposite of the correct foods to aid his hypotension, but without firm proof, I don’t dare approach Detective Burrows.”

  The usually reserved Glinna laughed. “Even with proof, I can see Burrows’ reaction to that one. Why not let it rest a while?”

  Miffed at her friend’s accurate reaction, and the suggestion that Kat had far too many books on the subject, Kat returned to the shelf, unerringly found the book and defiantly placed it on the counter.

  Glinna sighed, rang up the sale and agreed to help.