Sunday

 No one else saw it – the odd shadow, an arm’s silhouette reflected in the east window. Not the neighbors next door or across the street and not even Jamison on the rumpled linens beside me. I alone saw the protruding object rise and then quickly jerk downward in a slick deliberate motion. Of course I had seen nothing, really. Just a yellowy light surrounding the implication of a black shape and maybe, only maybe I had heard a sound thereafter. But this was just speculation I know.

In between rounds of foiled sheets and heavy breathing I tried to explain myself.

"That’s enough," I insisted. "I just saw something in the window."

"Not for me."

"I have to work tomorrow. You have the day off."

"That’s why we’re celebrating, love," Jamison replied.

I closed my eyes and tried not to look at him, hoping this new tactic might strengthen my resolve. It didn’t. I was hardly known, you understand, for being the kind of woman to have more than just one. Even that, historically, had typically occurred only after considerable effort and concentration. But after spotting Clay Jamison just once outside the Faculty Lounge, I knew my physiology would have no trouble communicating with my libido. "Cheers," he seemed to say knowing full well that I was left speechless at the mere sight of him. I steadily approached, surveying the details of his bone structure and wholly English attire -- 1970’s corduroy jacket, slim pants, lovely white slightly crooked teeth and a scandalous smile to match. Oddly, this feature didn’t seem to be derived entirely by his mouth, but his whole face smiled along with it. Hazel green eyes and thin, high cheekbones arched convincingly upwards toward an appealing mop of dusky hair. And somehow, amid this appearance, his presence suggested the feel of an old, woolly sweater. Unsure of myself, I actually spoke to him. "I’m in your 511 class."

"Yes I know," he said. "I’ve seen you."

I’ll never forget the way he said those words, with the ‘yesIknow’ sort of all jumbled together under the crook of his bottom teeth and a heavy emphasis on the word ‘seen.'

The morning after I discovered for sure that my neighbor, Miss Farthing, was indeed dead, I found a sheath of needlepoint she had made for me when I first moved into the flat. It had been accompanied by a small tin of sugar cookies and a note typed on an old Smith-Corona missing some vowels. ‘I lyve just next door. Knock yf you need butter or mylk or for no reason at all. Jean Farthyng.’ I deduced arthritis was the cause of this, and it touched me to think of how much time and trouble she had gone through for me. Though she was elderly and we had never actually been introduced, I could feel things about her while holding the needlepoint cloth. Things about her life, and her death. I knew, as I held the scratchy fabric in my palm, that she felt alone and isolated from the world, and that she had not expected to die when she did, or even the way that she did. I told Clay about it over the phone that night after class. He asked me what it looked like.

"Crisp white linen with a design of cats playing in front of a barn. Sad, really."

"The cats?"

"No," I sighed. "Sad that I have this towel she made just for me, and now she’s dead."

"Well I’ve never seen it," he queried as if in sixty days he’d learned all there was to know about me and viewed every artifact in my house.

It seemed as if a long time passed before I answered. "I was replacing all the batteries in my flashlights. I keep one under the bed and the towel was there when I reached underneath."

The police arrived the next evening. The biggest problem with my story, from their perspective, was the sex. I watched the two of them argue the philosophy of it -- one, massively tall with a haggard, anxious face and a smaller, ruddy-skinned man with suspicious, narrow eyes.

"Being in the throws of lovemaking renders one unfit for normal observation. And, I might add," the tall one said, "most especially after an hour at it."

"I beg to differ," the other mumbled. "I’ve read that sexual excitation causes heightened sensibilities of all kinds. Taste, smell, sight, etc., as well as situational sensitivity. You know, sensitivity toward the thoughts and feelings of others."

"Oh yeah, situational sensitivity," the other mocked.

"How did you know she was dead?" I asked stupidly, then quickly wished I could plunge my head in a bucket of water.

They both looked at each other, and Clay glared at me from the living room.

"The Medical Examiner confirmed it," the tall officer said with mostly annoyance and a twist of compassion in his voice.

The other man, obviously the hierarchical superior, shook his head. "We have several ways of discerning death, Ms. Davies. The victim wasn’t breathing, first and foremost, and then body temperature is a factor, not to mention that the head injury strongly suggested not only cause of death but the certainty of it."

"I see. Will you need me to write up a statement?" I asked and once again remembered I was an American living abroad. I explained myself further to their perplexed expressions.

"Not as yet, love."

"You don’t believe me? I all but witnessed a murder for God’s sake!"

The small man moved slowly towards me now, dragged a chair out from under my kitchen table and plopped down on the uncushioned seat. "It’s not what you saw, Ms. Davies, but when you saw it. The time you recall seeing the silhouette of the arm holding the supposed murder weapon does not correspond to the time of death estimated by the Medical Examiner, you see."

"So it was after, then?" I asked as more of a statement than a question.

"No. Before."

Politely enough, the Chief Inspector and his Sergeant excused themselves, shook our hands and smiled at us as they snickered all the way out to their jolly old cars. I knew, though, that they would return soon with files of paperwork, photographs, and notebooks attached to clipboards.

Having been transported to Devon as a child while my father completed his degree at University of Exeter, my return to England seemed not only right but inevitable. The parched, naked landscape of the American Southwest made me, at times, yearn for grass that sloshed when walked upon and mossy sea-green hills sleeping off in the distance. Up until two weeks ago, I was happy here. As my father had been, I was a graduate student; I had a modestly nice flat on a pretty street and a small sum of sterling in the bank. Clay Jamison was more than just cake frosting, but frosting nevertheless.

Our rendezvous’ ceased during the investigation of Miss Farthing, at the request of the Chief Inspector who visited us the night after the murder. My body felt the withdrawal from Clay’s carnal gifts, though not for long. On Saturday, seven days after the incident, the Chief Inspector summoned Clay to the police station, fingerprinted and photographed him and then let him leave of his own accord. Despite my calls in angry protest, no explanation was given for the police’s suspicion of him. My sister, calling from New Mexico, seemed to sum it all up rather nicely.

"Rather convenient for you, isn’t it?"

"What?"

"That you’re screwing a murder suspect?"

"In what way is this situation convenient?"

"Convenient that you are his airtight alibi. So who was she? The victim?"

The next three days were spent researching the answer to this question, in particular, Miss Jean Farthing’s life, her work, her family and whatever scandalous details made her worthy of being murdered on a cool unmomentous Sunday evening. My sister Lynn, after splitting the airfare with her and helping her concoct a story of severe influenza to her employer, sat in the same chair now as the Chief Inspector had.

"Natalie? Why won’t you return his call? He’ll just call again, you know. That’s how the game is played."

"What game?"

"You know, cat and mouse."

I sighed. "I was instructed not to. By the police," I explained further.

"That’s not why," she insisted and looked glumly into her coffee cup.

"I have a lot on my mind now, Lynn. Don’t you know that?"

"Yes, but in order to determine how you are, really, I need to inquire about the man who you said changed the person you’ve always been."

"Maybe he’s not what I thought." There. I’d said it. "And that scares me. That and a few other things."

"Such as?"

I stirred my coffee and wished I’d just kept quiet about it. Too late now. "The fact that his fingerprints are on the murder weapon."

Lynn slammed her cup on the table. "You don’t know that."

"It’s true, I have no proof, no lab results or forensic evidence. But I just know. And then there’s the problem of the cigarette." Lynn jerked her head up. "He stepped outside to smoke."

"When?"

I shook my head. "Between rounds, about a half hour before I saw the shadow."

She sipped more of the coffee that I had just refilled, and twisted the same lock of hair she’d been twisting since we were toddlers -- an inherited trait. She picked up the needlepoint cloth and braised her fingers on the nubby surface of the design. "What’s this?" she asked perfunctorily. Then, after a moment of close study, she looked thoughtfully out the kitchen window at Miss Farthing’s house. It satisfied me to know, once again, that some things don’t have to be explained between sisters. I sat back and waited for her to ask the inevitable question.

"Do you believe it?"

"Of course Clay didn’t do it. It was a woman."

Lynn grinned the way she did when she thought I was talking out of my ass. "How do you mean that Clay’s different from what you thought?"

I didn’t need to formulate the answer that had been solidifying in my mind for four weeks. Traveling international lecturer on art history, renowned oil painter and collector of 18th century antiques, Clay Jamison was not the intriguing, mid-moors drifter I had originally thought. He lived a life of narrow predictability, based on a very routine set of tasks, routine thoughts and unoriginal actions. In short, lacking in spontaneity. Only having spent two months with him, I knew this already. And I also knew that none of this explanation would satisfy Lynn’s pre-determined opinion of him as supreme art historian and ultimate gigolo.

"I’m just suggesting you take a few steps back. You may or may not have been a witness, albeit a lame one, to a brutal murder and you know from your often wildly incorrect sixth sense that your lover’s prints are on the murder weapon?"

"Correct," I mumbled and at that moment felt more firm about the whole affair than I had since it started.

"What have you found out about Miss Farthing?"

"Not much," I lied, knowing better than to lie to the one person who not only knew my bag of tricks but had filled it for me.

"How old was she?"

"Sixty-five. Divorced from a man who works for the telephone company. Good job history, good wage."

"I suppose you know the limits of his insurance policies, now, do you?"

Pause. I played with the unopened pack of cigarettes hidden inside the napkin holder as a diversion. "The question really shouldn’t be about his insurance at all. You see, Miss Farthing is legally named Mrs. Jean Wahl, and three years ago she took out an insurance policy on herself for £100,000." I paused again for emphasis. "She and Mr. Wahl have three children, all living independently abroad. Two are in Europe and one in the states, all married with families."

The conversation continued over breakfast the next morning. I told her about the money her family put up for the purchase of their first house twenty years ago and of the seven grandchildren whom she had never seen, and now never would.

I saw Clay in class on Mondays and Wednesdays. I sat as far away from him as possible, which only enticed him to carry on his lectures up the stairs to the rear of the auditorium. I had braced up for this, numbing my sexual radar to his glances and cheeky body language. He cornered me in the corridor near the front door archway and appeared not humbled whatsoever by the arrest, interrogation and fingerprinting. I asked for an explanation.

"Why did I do what?" he asked.

"Why did you volunteer your fingerprints and give them information if you don’t know anything about it?"

"I’ve got nothing to hide is all. Why does that bother you so much?" he asked leaning into me. "Now do I really look like a killer?"

Even considering his arrogance, all I could do was smile. This response was involuntary. God help me, I thought.

"I don’t suppose you miss me at all then."

"Not much," I answered quickly. Standing under the archway with Clay Jamison, listening to the echoey chorus of voices from above us and talking about celibacy reminded me, somehow, of Gregorian monks.

The next day, I told Lynn about Miss Farthing’s estimated time of death.

"And you saw the silhouette at around nine o’clock?"

"On the dot."

"How do you explain this? Was the Medical Examiner pretty well sure of their estimate?"

"I don’t think they can ever be that sure of time of death. I guess it depends on the temperature and stiffness of the body. Maybe she didn’t exactly die right away," I suggested sadly. I tried to rub this most unwelcome possibility out of my head and, when I looked up, Lynn had a nauseous expression on her face.

"Did she work?" she asked me.

"At Debenham’s, a department store on the High Street when she was much younger, and more recently in the little shop downstairs in Exeter Cathedral. She was very religious."

"How do you know all that?"

"Holy pictures all over the walls of her house."

"You’ve been there, or have you resorted to breaking and entering?"

"Binoculars. Hell, she lives next door. I can read the notes on her refrigerator from the street. I put a call in to the clerk at the courts about when she got divorced. I should hear back today."

"I’ll be curious to find out," she said.

"Why?"

"Because it’s not exactly customary for women in her generation to get divorced."

That point got me thinking. Sure, they had probably been unhappy for some time. Maybe years. But if they had divorced, it threw a wrench into my cleverly researched life insurance motive.

"Is this Natalie Davies?" a male voice inquired over the telephone.

"Yes."

"I have the information you requested on Mrs. Jean Wahl. Can I ask what your interest is in this woman?"

Pause. "It’s public record, is it not?"

"Well, yes. That’s true. I’m just obligated to ask."

"She’s my neighbor. Her husband’s been harassing her all winter, and I’m wondering if the divorce is final yet."

"Very well then." Pages flipped and the man cleared his throat. "Two months ago the papers were filed."

"I see. Well thank you," I said, assembling two more pieces into my mental jigsaw puzzle.

"But wait," the clerk stammered. "The papers were withdrawn. Just a week after they were delivered by the solicitor. I’m sorry if that’s not what you were hoping for."

I met the Chief Inspector at the station after supper. "Motive, you know. That’s important, right?"

"Coffee, Ms. Davies? You look a little harried." He knew I was playing dumb, so he avoided the question. "Your boyfriend’s prints match the prints found on the murder weapon, Ms. Davies. Do you have any thoughts on that development?"

First, I looked at my shoes, then the far wall behind him. I examined the nametag pinned to his breast pocket. It read Chief Inspector Reese. "I think I can tell you that Clay didn’t kill that woman."

"You can tell me that for sure, then?"

"Of course," I said in an inadvertent mocking tone.

"Would that be because you know who did?"

"He was with me. And not just with me but with me, if you know what I mean. At the time that Miss Farthing met her death, Clay Jamison was in my bed engaged in activities that unmistakably prevented him from being anywhere else. Furthermore, since we’ve just established Clay’s innocence, I think I can speculate as to the relationship between Clay and the weapon."

"You mean an explanation for the prints?"

"Clay Jamison’s residence is not only across the street from my flat but next door to a house that Miss Farthing, I mean Mrs. Wahl’s oldest son once lived in. He now lives in Europe, as I’ve discovered. But this previous residence has been vacant ever since. I think maybe the family owns the house and hasn’t rented it."

"What’s that got to do with the murder weapon?"

"I just finished telling you about the life insurance policy, sir. Since the payout sum of the policy was quite high, it could be speculated that one of her estranged children intended to kill her and take the insurance money. If they had visited Mrs. Wahl, stayed in the family’s vacant house across the street and, perhaps, seen Clay doing yard work with the pick ax, they may have also seen that he stores it in his garage. They, meaning one of her children, could have taken it out of the garage while Clay was gone, walked across the street and committed their crime. Did you find any other prints on the ax, Inspector?" I asked politely.

He scowled. "There were three other clear prints taken from the handle."

"Have you determined the gender?"

He looked down to examine his notes. "They belonged to a woman."

One week later, I agreed to go to Clay’s house for dinner. He said he would cook pasta for me which was, of course, a euphemism for another kind of consumption. The pasta dinner began with soft music, whispered words, and a mysterious type of wine that removed not only my inhibitions but my clothing as well. Next morning, chugging cappuccino to quell my fatigue and disappointment in myself, I picked up Lynn from my flat at 9:00 a.m. and made the 2-1/2 hour drive to Gatwick airport where she would be flying back to New Mexico via Dallas. She seemed happy to hear about the previous night’s activities.

"I don’t really like him that much, but I like you with him," she said.

Anyone but myself would be stumped by this statement, though I knew it was her seal of approval.

When it came time to say good-bye, I saw genuine concern in her eyes, almost fear.

"I found the Christmas card that Miss Farthing sent you last year."

"It should have been signed Mrs. Wahl, since she was still married then," I said coldly.

"So at what point exactly did you become such an expert in criminology? Or are you just psychic? I mean, the Inspector pretty much substantiated every detail that you had speculated about the last time you spoke with him. About the insurance money, the house across the street next to Clay’s flat, and the estranged daughter. How did you sniff her out?"

"I met her once, last Winter I think. I saw her ring the doorbell at Mrs. Farthing’s and say, ‘hello, mother.’" She stuck out her hand stiffly, and then I saw Miss Farthing reach out to shake it and cry. I guess the silhouette reminded me of that chilly greeting."

"I still think you’re either a mind reader or maybe you killed her yourself."

I let a half-grin slide into the wrinkles on my face. The sky over London was bright blue covered by a sheer gauze of sunlight and dotted with white fluffy clouds. "I’ve been studying criminology for several years," I admitted with an apologetic tone to my voice.

"Very quietly, apparently. I never heard about it. Maybe it’s not art history at all that you’re interested in?"

"Oh yes, interested. But I wouldn’t say it’s my passion."

"Speaking of which, is seven the magic number today?"

I laughed out loud, happy to share this moment with my only sister when normally these occasions happened over the telephone wire from a distance of several thousand miles. As I wrapped my arms around her, I deeply inhaled the perfume of her shampoo and the comforting, almost primal scent of what I had come to recognize as ‘family.' I cried gently to myself as she stepped into the line at the ticket gate.

"No," I answered in an elevated tone. "Today the number’s four."