Lisa Atkinson - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 131, No. 5. Whole No. 801, May 2008

“No, the glass is cracked,” she’d told him. “And there’s no way I’m drinking from a cracked glass.”

Anyway, the dog he was looking at was the same he’d seen yesterday, because this was the homeless guy’s regular hangout, and this particular entrance to Oxford’s Covered Market was right by the doorway to Tessa Greenlaw’s gym. Or the gym Tessa Greenlaw was a member of. Joe had spent long enough watching it to make such pointless clarifications to himself, as if somewhere inside his own head was a not entirely bright third party, in constant need of updating. Tessa Greenlaw came here once her workday was done, or had done so both days Joe had been following her. Surveilling, he amended. “Following” had a stalkerish air. And yesterday, after leaving, she’d done nothing more complicated than head straight home, giving Joe a tricky moment when he’d found himself boarding the same bus — but it had been crowded, and he’d sat where she couldn’t see his face, and besides, they’d only encountered each other once, months ago. Chances were, all she’d have would be one of those vague city moments at the sight of a face from a forgotten context. And if that had happened, she hadn’t let on.

Tonight, though, there was no rush for the bus. Instead, on leaving the gym Tessa Greenlaw headed south, down St. Aldate’s. Giving her time to get ahead, Joe peeled himself from his hiding place, thought for a moment about popping over the road to slip a quid to the boy with the dog, decided he didn’t have time, and set off in Tessa’s wake.

It was hardly a surprise. How many places could she have been headed? Well, okay, she could have been going anywhere — but a short distance down St. Aldate’s, then a left turn off the main road, and what you reached was the building that housed Tom Parker’s language school.

This wasn’t a busy thoroughfare. Joe couldn’t have followed Tessa along it without being spotted. But opposite the lane’s entrance, on St. Aldate’s itself, was a bench for the weary, from which Joe had a clear view of Tessa Greenlaw coming to a halt by the language school; of Tessa checking her watch, then leaning against the wall of the building opposite, looking up at the second-floor window where Tom had his office.

Joe spread his newspaper over his knees, in case Tessa noticed him.

He timed it at eleven minutes. Eleven minutes before Tom Parker came out. During this time, Tessa grew restless; checked her watch a number of times; fiddled through her bag for something she didn’t find. She was wearing the same glasses Joe had admired the first time he’d met her — only time, he amended; you couldn’t call this “meeting” — and her hair was shorter, but what he mostly noticed was that she seemed, what might the word be — frazzled? Yes: She seemed frazzled. As if things were not going her way lately, and the directions they had chosen instead were stretching her thin... Zoe would probably point out that Tessa had just been to the gym, which might account for it. But still: She looked frazzled.

Joe was staring straight at her when she looked his way. He dropped his eyes to the newspaper, made a bit of a thing about turning a page. When he risked another glance, Tom was in the lane, too.

“You saw?”

“I saw, yes.”

“That’s the fourth time. No, fifth. She’s mad, Joe. Complete mentalist.”

“Mentalist.” Joe wasn’t sure he’d encountered the term. “Certainly, she does not give the impression of being, ah, stable.”

He hadn’t been able to hear everything, but that she’d been shouting was clear enough. Bastard had floated Joe’s way. And all the while Tom had been making soothing gestures in the air; smiling softly but never quite touching her, as if Tessa were a cornered animal in spitting mood, unclear of its own best choices. When he’d reached at last for her sleeve she’d pulled her arm away angrily and stormed down the lane, away from Joe. Slowly, he’d folded his newspaper and stood. When Tom reached him, he led the way to the bar without a word.

Now he said, “And has there been any pattern, any particular sequence to the way in which she comes and, ah, lurks outside your workplace?”

“I’m not sure. Would it make a difference?”

“Probably not,” Joe admitted.

“You’re thinking some kind of PMT thing?”

Uncomfortable with this direction, Joe shook his head. “Not really.” Truth was, he had no idea what questions to ask, or what answers would help. Insights into the female psyche weren’t his specialty. And if he’d ever claimed them to be, it wasn’t like the notion would withstand five minutes of Zoe’s scrutiny. “Did you confront her about her invasion of your property?”

“Did she give the impression of being up for a discussion?”

“I couldn’t hear,” Joe explained. “Traffic. Distance. Plus, she was shouting and you were speaking softly. Neither was an ideal volume.”

“Well, trust me, she was in no mood for answering questions. More than likely, she’d find a way of blaming it on me, anyway. You had much to do with madwomen, Joe?”

Loyally, Joe denied it.

“Lucky you.”

She’d looked frazzled, he remembered. It wasn’t such a stretch to colour her mad. “What was she saying?”

Tom Palmer ran a hand through his hair: a boyish gesture, not without charm. “That we belong together. That I was just being stupid, and should come to my senses. That I should come to my senses.” He shook his head in wonderment. “A bloody baby. We’re not even in a relationship, for God’s sake.”

“Does she have parents? Someone who could perhaps talk to her—”

“Well, I don’t know, do I? We weren’t playing happy families, Joe. We were only together for a couple of weeks.”

“An official complaint, perhaps? Now that I’ve paid witness to this stalking, this harassment, perhaps you want me to... accompany you to the police station?”

Tom barked a sudden laugh. “You’ve never actually been a copper, have you, Joe?”

“Never. Not ever.”

“But you talk the talk. No, I don’t want you to accompany me to the station, thanks anyway. I want something more direct than that. I want you to put a stop to it. To all her crap.”

Joe had been afraid that’s where this was leading. “You think she’ll listen to me?” He was older than Tessa, true — could easily be her father — and perhaps a little elder wisdom was what she needed: But still, he was afraid. Not of confronting a madwoman; more of being mortally embarrassed. “There is a law,” he suggested. “The Protection from Harassment Act?”

“I know,” Tom said. “You think that’s going to carry weight? Quote section thirteen, paragraph six at her, and watch enlightenment dawn?” He leaned forward. “She’s barking, Joe. You’ve seen what she’s like, waiting round my office to harangue me when I leave. Not to mention she seriously messed me about, wiped my computer. I like things ordered, Joe. This was out of order. So. Are you going to help or not? I mean, that’s what you do, right? You’re a private eye. You take on clients.”

“Yes,” Joe sighed. “It’s what I do. I take on clients.”

“Good.” Tom passed a key across the table. “I want you to mess her place up, Joe. Same way she messed mine. Fair’s fair, right?”

“I suppose it is,” Joe agreed. “Fair’s fair. Yes.”

Tessa left home for work at nine-fifteen. It was all right for some, Joe noted, a judgment tempered by the knowledge that if he himself didn’t reach the office before eleven, it wasn’t like anyone would notice. As it was, this morning he’d been up at seven; by half-past, had been slumped twenty yards down the road from Tessa’s front door, his trusty newspaper on the car seat next to him, in case a disguise was called for. Was it really necessary for him to observe, first-hand, Tessa’s departure? Yes, it was. If he was going to let himself into her place with the key Tom had given him, he wanted proof positive she was off the premises. He figured that was the way Philip Marlowe would have played it, “What would Marlowe do?” being Joe’s regular mantra. Marlowe wouldn’t take unnecessary risks. Well, that wasn’t true. But it was the answer Joe wanted, which was substantially more important.