Amanda Flower - Maid of Murder

Mark kept his gaze fixed on Olivia.

“Leave,” Mrs. Blocken said.

A group of varsity jocks were quickly closing in on my brother. They would like nothing better than to throw a nerd like Mark over the Blockens’ fence.

Luckily, they didn’t get that chance because Olivia spoke first. “I don’t want you at my party, Mark. Go home.”

Tears welled up in his eyes, and he staggered away, back through the open gate.

Later, I found him curled in a ball in his apartment. I called my sister, and she took over with her usual efficiency, and, in the fall, I ran away to art school.

The phone at the check-out desk rang.

A moment later, Lasha Lint, the director of the library, bellowed, “Botswana, phone.”

Startled, I jumped. Lasha shook the receiver at me. Black, solid, relatively young, and loud, Lasha is nothing like the withering-violet type that many think of when they conjure up the image of a librarian. With a brutal penchant for nicknames, she hadn’t called me India since my first day at Martin.

“Botswana,” I said as I hopped off my chair, sending it skidding on its polished wheels into the reference counter. “That’s a new one.”

“I’ve been studying the atlas, honey.”

I chuckled and took the phone from her.

“India, do you know where Mark is?” my mother asked in the tense, low voice she used to console divorcées.

I prickled. “No, I’m not his babysitter.”

“I’m not asking you where he is, I’m asking if you know where he is. I know where he is,” she rambled.

“Then, why are you calling me if you already know where he is?”

Lasha shamelessly eavesdropped. I leaned against the checkout counter and rolled my eyes.

“Your brother called from campus. He was babbling.”

A hereditary trait, I noted.

“He said something about Olivia and a fountain. He was—he sounded strange. I’m worried about him. If you could walk over to his office and check—”

“I can’t just leave the library—” I started to say, but was interrupted by shrill sirens that shook the book stacks.

Lasha rushed to the window. “A police car and two ambulances. They’re heading to Dexler.”

“What’s going on?” my mother asked. “Are those sirens? India!”

“I’ll have to call you back.” I hung up and turned to Lasha. She had her nose pressed up against the glass.

“Go on, Iran.”

I staggered out the loading doors into the stifling heat and sunlight. Gathering my bearings, I jogged across campus to Dexler. As I closed in on the building, I saw three police cars, a fire truck, and two ambulances gathered around an iron fountain. The fountain, entitled Empowerment, was a twenty-foot metal embarrassment to modern art that a donor with more cash than class unloaded on the college. Never one to upset benefactors with impending tasty bequests, Martin accepted the sculpture, but tucked it behind the Dexler Math and Science building, the least visible location on campus.

I forced myself to slow to a walk and tricked myself into believing that the sirens had nothing whatsoever to do with my loony brother. A handful of summer faculty and students had clustered about thirty feet from the fountain. A uniformed campus security guard blocked their view to whatever they were trying so desperately to see.

“It can’t be Mark. He wouldn’t—” I refused to allow my brain to complete that thought. When I reached the assemblage of Martinites, I asked a dour chemistry professor. “What’s going on?”

“Nobody knows. Something about Mark Hayes,” the professor said with a glint of excitement in his eyes.

I forced my way past the security guard who looked just old enough to star in a zit cream commercial. He stood on his tiptoes to peek at the action and didn’t notice me until I was already well beyond his reach.

“Wait! You can’t go back there,” the boy-officer cried, astonished that anyone would cross his imaginary line. Obviously, he hadn’t been at Martin long.

I hurried around the left side of the fountain’s base. A cluster of public servants in different official uniforms stood over something on the ground. An EMT wheeled a stretcher over to the group. They swallowed the EMT and the stretcher into their ring. I stopped, afraid to proceed, afraid for Mark. An image of a somber orderly pulling a sheet back and asking me to identify the body entered my mind. Suddenly lightheaded, I doubled over, gulping deep breaths. I had to stop watching crime shows.

“Miss, you shouldn’t be back here. Are you all right?”

I stared at a pair of black walking shoes. After two more deep breaths, I straightened to stare into the concerned face of a middle-aged EMT. White remnants of sun block glistened on his bald head. The dizziness passed.

“Is that,” I stopped and began again. “I’m looking for my brother, Mark Hayes.”

The EMT nodded. “Don’t worry, Miss, he’s fine. He’s a little shaken up, but fine. I’ll take you to him.”

Mercifully, the EMT led me away from the cluster of emergency workers to an ambulance. Mark was perched on the end of the ambulance’s bay. Despite the heat, a heavy wool blanket enveloped his frame. A dark-haired man in khakis and a green polo shirt asked him serious-sounding questions. Mark stared at the ground, his thin shoulders shaking.

“Mark!” I rushed past the khaki-clad man. “What happened?”

I hopped up beside him on the edge of the ambulance. He sniffled. Fat tears rolled down his face and stalled at his beard. I patted his arm, wishing that my sister Carmen was there. She was better equipped to handle emotions.

The khaki-clad man uttered a frustrated sigh. “Who are you? We’re in the middle of an interview here.”

I recognized the man’s face, but couldn’t put a name to it, a fairly common occurrence for a community of Stripling’s size. “I’m his sister. India Hayes. Can you telling me what’s going on?”

“Well, Miss Hayes,” the man said. His voice had the lilt of recognition. “A woman tumbled into the fountain and was badly hurt. Your brother’s a witness.”

“Who’s the woman?” I asked, but already I knew.

The man consulted his minuscule memo pad. “Olivia Blocken.”

“Olivia,” I whispered.

The man peered at me. “Do you know her?”

“She’s a friend. Is she okay?”

Breathe. In and out, in and out, I reminded myself.

Mark snuffled. I patted his arm again. I really wished Carmen was there.

“She’s alive, but unconscious. She received a nasty gash and bump falling into the fountain, or whatever the hell you people call that thing.”

I let out a breath. “And she’ll be okay? She’ll recover?”

“Hopefully we got to her in time.” He flipped through his notebook.

Mark stopped weeping and sat staring in the direction of uniforms by the fountain. His face looked carved from stone.

“Does her family know? Have you called them?”

“They’ve been notified and will meet Olivia at the hospital in Akron.”

“What does Mark have to do with this?”

“If you would give us a minute, that’s what I am trying to find out,” khaki man said.

The light dawned. “You’re a police officer.”

He held out his hand. “Detective Rick Mains.”

I stopped short of shaking his hand. “Rick Mains? Ricky Mains?” And I remembered where I had seen Mains before. He was one of a long line of high school boyfriends that Carmen had dated before she’d settled down in college. Mains was one of the long-termers. Four months.

Mains grinned. “You remember me?”

“I’m sure Carmen does too,” I said.

Mains guffawed the same intrusive and uproarious laugh that had caused Carmen to dismiss him for the happy hunting grounds of higher education.