Steven Brust - Agyar

I got dressed in what used to be the master bedroom. This has become a habit with me, to stand in front of the fireplace, dry myself off as if there were a fire going, then go over to the dressing room attached to it and put on whatever I’ve chosen to wear that day. Today, for the record, I’m wearing black zip boots, black pants, a navy blue turtleneck shirt and a brown corduroy sports coat. And my pendant, of course; I’ve had it for a long, long time, and it has become a sort of good-luck piece for me, although I’m not really superstitious. (I used to be very superstitious, but then I learned it was bad luck. A little joke there, Jim). It was Kellem who gave me the pendant, now that I think of it. She said it reminded her of me. I didn’t know what she meant, and, come to that, I still don’t; she probably just said it for effect. In any case, while I don’t pay a great deal of attention to my dress, and I tend to leave almost everything when I move, I do like to look presentable. The shoes, by the way, haven’t quite broken in and they hurt just a little.

It’s time to get serious about this; the game’s afoot, Watson, I need you. I’m going to take those papers out again and go through them once more.

Completely frustrated. I’ve been able to eliminate a few cases, but not enough to help. It seems Kellem ought to have been polite enough to leave some sort of signs on her kills. Is this what she calls being obvious? I suppose I could tell her that she’s overreacting, but the last time I tried to talk to her it didn’t work out so well.

I am tempted to try to get into the police station and go through their files, but that does seem like asking for trouble. What if they have a description of me, and I’m spotted the instant I go in?

I would love to be able to talk to Susan about this. Not that I think she could help, but it would be pleasant to be able to unload my frustration on her. Still, there’s always Jim, who has been very patient with me.

I’m not sure what to do next. Ignore everything and hope something comes up? Wait for inspiration to strike? Track down Kellem at her lair? And then what? At least I no longer have to worry about Jill or Don.

Although, now that I think of it, how did Don know what to do? Even if he’d watched a few movies and read a few novels, his knowledge seemed far too complete. There’s a mystery there. I might have been too hasty with him; although it is certainly too late to worry about that now. But perhaps I ought to try to find the source of his knowledge. At any rate, that will give me something to do.

I’ve just come back from spending a few hours visiting our neighbor, Bill. I met him and his infuriating dog again as I was leaving the house, and, once again, the dog nearly went berserk. Bill apologized, and we spoke, and he renewed his offer, and this time I accepted. Their house is about as different from Jim’s as you can imagine for two houses in the same neighborhood. It is from the 1950’s, a style I detest, with low ceilings and space conservation everywhere; although when the forced-air heating system started up I began to see the virtues. It is very simply decorated, mostly with books. I was pleased to see a good number of old, leather-bound editions of Dickens and Hawthorne and such.

The dog wouldn’t settle down, so they put it out in the fenced-in backyard, and showered me with apologies about which I was quite gracious.

His wife’s name is Dorothy (I didn’t ask her if she was from Kansas, although I was tempted), and she’s a bright, slightly dumpy middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper hair. They tried to feed me and I declined, eventually accepting half a cup of coffee.

We spoke about the college, and he mentioned that he had a new project.

“What’s that?” I said.

“It’s called the Swaggart Study.”

“From Jimmy Swaggart?”

“No, no, Don Swaggart.”

I kept my face impassive. “I don’t believe I’ve heard of him.”

“He’s the guy who started the project, over in Sociology.”

“Oh.”

“He died recently, and he was pretty much the main force behind it, so we decided to keep it going in his honor and name it after him.”

“That was thoughtful. An older fellow?”

“No, quite young. He was killed. Some sort of break-in at his house.”

“Really? A shame. Did you know him?”

Bill nodded. “Yes. Very well, in fact.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“It was a shock. It’s hard to get to be my age without having a close friend die unexpectedly like that, but I’ve managed.”

“I’ve never gotten used to it myself,” I said.

He nodded, then laughed a little. “I still don’t quite believe it. I mean, I’ve read Spider Robinson; people don’t really die. Not dead dead.”

“Who?”

“Never mind.”

Dorothy offered me some Rondele on crackers which I declined, and then she asked if I had any children.

“No. Do you?” Which was the cue for them to get the pictures out. Lord! They even had a son in the army, stationed in Germany; it was the kind of photograph that makes you think the kid is an officer if you don’t know insignia. They also had a daughter who, judging from her graduation picture, was not unattractive. I started to ask about her, then changed my mind.

The conversation drifted after that. Bill brought up Young Don once or twice more, but I had nothing to say about him, and we eventually worked our way to a discussion of crime in general. I was able to keep a straight face while agreeing with most of what they said.

Then Dorothy said, “The police were over at the house across the street today.”

“Really?” said Bill and I at the same time.

She nodded. “I went out and asked one of the officers what was going on, and he ordered me back in the house.”

“It must have been serious, then,” I said.

Bill nodded. “That’s the real problem with empty houses; you never know who might move in, unofficially.”

“Indeed,” I said. “That is very true.”

A long day today. I went back to see Jill, hoping she might be able to tell me where Young Don got his great ideas. I opened up her door and went in, and found the place full of flowers, a tray next to the bed, a teapot and cup on the tray, and Jill lying sound asleep. Someone had evidently been taking care of her.

I tried to wake her up, but she only moaned a little and, if anything, fell deeper into unconsciousness. Not knowing what else to do, I turned to go, and found Susan in the doorway, looking at me with an expression that seemed puzzled and not entirely happy. I held my smile until I should know what she was about. She didn’t waste any time telling me.

“What have you been doing to Jill?” she said. She looked right at me, her voice and expression without fear or compromise, and I felt the way I suppose the lion feels when confronted by his trainer with whip and chair.

Yet, despite the horrible plunging sensation in my chest, and the odd tingling at the bottoms of my feet and in my palms, I determined not to give up anything more than necessary. I said, “What do you mean?”

“Jill,” she said, “has been lying here all day, hardly waking up for more than five or ten minutes, and she’s been calling your name and moaning.”

“Perhaps,” I said, “she misses me.”

“She’s been moaning ‘no, Jack, please don’t.’ Does that sound like she misses you?”

It came to me that I’d been hearing those very words, in her voice, while I was sleeping. In my dreams I had thought it slightly amusing; now I did not. I groped for a reply, and finally settled on asking “Could she mean, please don’t go?”

“I think not,” said Susan, biting out the words one at a time. She was still looking at me in a manner that was nearly accusing.