Mom Zone Mysteries 02 Staying Home Is a Killer (28 page)

“Very good. Yes, you may.”

I filled a sippy cup with a little apple juice, topped it off with water, and sprinkled some cheesy Goldfish crackers on a plastic plate shaped like a dinosaur. I set it down on her small table. She slid into the miniature seat, shoved her crayons out of the way, and pulled the plate toward her. “Keep it on the table. I’ll be in the living room,” I said.

Carrying the computer, I sat down cross-legged in front of the bookcase wedged in the corner beside our overstuffed chair. I skimmed along the titles until I found my dictionary, a remnant from my college days. I flipped it open to the first page of the
A
entries. Yes, there it was. Under the large letter
A
in the center, examples of handwritten letters marched across the page. Many of the letters looked similar to English, but there were dozens of characters I didn’t recognize. I glanced back and forth between the computer and flipped back and forth in the dictionary for a few moments, until I found several matches. Greek. It was in Greek.

I slowly set the dictionary back on the shelf. And gave a little half laugh. It really was all Greek to me and I didn’t know how to figure out what the letters meant. This must be what it feels like to be illiterate, a mixture of frustration and expectation tinged with mystery.

I shifted around on the carpet, and the flicker of the TV screen caught my eye. I’d left the video on
PAUSE
, but I’d been gone so long that it had switched back to TV mode. I hit
PLAY
. The picture went in and out of focus as people passed in front of the camera or moved away. For a long time there was a stretch of speckled Formica in the foreground and no camera movement. Karen must have set the camera down with the record mode on and forgotten it.

Snatches of conversation sounded from the recording as people moved around the room.

“Clarissa, when does the general get back from D.C.?”

“Two more days,” Clarissa replied. “And when he does he’s taking me to the Aurora Mansion. He doesn’t know it yet, but it’s the least he can do since he won’t come home…” Her voice faded as she and her friend moved away from the camera. I checked the status and then fast-forwarded to 0:32:00, a few seconds before the time on the note. I couldn’t see General Bedford going to this party with Clarissa. In fact, I couldn’t imagine them socializing together. I bet they had two sets of friends.

The picture focused on Clarissa’s sparkly silver top as she leaned on the counter. “You know, all this birthday stuff reminds me of another birthday present. We’ve got to talk,” she said to the man beside her.

“What about?” His arm looped around her hips and the diamonds on his Rolex watch face flashed as his hand traced lazy circles on Clarissa’s hip. Rory had a watch like that.

“About your little sideline. I want in.”

His hand froze and he said, “What?”

“You heard me. I want a cut.”

“No.” He pulled away.

Clarissa leaned toward him. “You can’t expect me to deliver your stuff for nothing. You didn’t really think I believed your story about your aunt in Salt Lake and how you forgot her birthday? You didn’t think I’d check out a ‘present’ I’d be carrying through the airport? I want something in return.”

“All right, everyone!” another voice called. “Time for the cake. In here. Rissa, where did you go? Who’s got the camera?”

Clarissa and Rory moved out of the camera’s range; then the picture tilted back and forth. Finally, it settled on Clarissa’s smiling face, lit with candles from her cake. As the camera panned the guests singing “
Happy Birthday
,” I caught a glimpse of Rory, brows low and with a sullen expression on his face. He wasn’t singing.

I hit
PAUSE
and wrapped my arms around my knees. I felt chilled. I thought about the day at the BX when Rory had cut in line in front of me and barely been civil. Was he a killer? I didn’t know. Rude, yes. Abrasive? Yes. Could he have crossed the line between decency and barbarism to strangle Clarissa? I shivered.

Livvy appeared before me with a faint orange ring around her mouth, still crunching on a few crackers. In one hand, she held a squished tube of Berry Burst toothpaste and in the other hand, she held her toothbrush, loaded with enough toothpaste for a week, tilted toward the rug.

In one motion, I levered myself off the floor, grabbed the toothpaste and toothbrush, and guided her back to the bathroom. As I helped her brush her teeth, I tried to figure out what to do. I could take my find to Thistlewait. That was probably the best thing, but I wanted to know what it was. I’d bet that it would take a while for Thistlewait to round up an expert in Greek to read it for them. And what if it didn’t have anything to do with Penny’s death?

“Okay, rinse.” I handed Livvy a little cup of water.

She sloshed it around in her mouth and swallowed.

“No, you spit it back out,” I said. She looked at me like I was crazy.

“Okay, never mind. We’ll work on it later.” I considered calling Harris University and asking if I could get someone to translate a document for me, but I didn’t want to show it to just anyone. I moved back into the kitchen, rinsed the juice cup, and swept the cracker crumbs off the table into my hand. As I trashed the crumbs, I said, “Marsali!” I gathered up the dictionary and Mitch’s handheld computer. I grabbed the tape out of the VCR and stuck it in my purse. I had plenty of time for an afternoon visit before my haircut appointment and the spouse coffee later that night.

“Mar-sal-ee?” Livvy repeated after me.

“Yes! Professor Marsali. We’ll go visit him. Let’s get your shoes on.”

An Everything In Its Place Tip for Organized Closets

If your home has a coat closet near the front door, but everyone enters through the garage, consider creating a “coat closet” near the garage, especially if your garage entry is near a laundry room.

• Hooks for each family member—with a storage container below each hook—allow everyone to neatly drop off coats and backpacks as they arrive.
  
• If you’ve got the space, a hall tree (a bench with a tall back panel and hooks across the top of the back panel) combines seating (for pulling boots on and off), storage, and hang options into one unit.
  
• If you transition the coats most often worn to an area by the garage, your coat closet can take on new functions. You’ll probably want to keep coats that are worn less often (dress coats) in the coat closet, but much of the space could be transformed into storage for table games, household records, or even movie or music storage.
  

Chapter Twenty-six

“Y
ou use this little wand,” I said to Marsali.

“Yes. I’m familiar with it. My daughter gave me one for Christmas.” Marsali pushed his large glasses back up the bridge of his nose and peered intently at the tiny screen.

“Oh, sorry.”

“Do you have a printed copy of this?”

“No, I’m not sure how to transfer the file or print it.” I leaned over to move Livvy’s glass of milk—a real glass without a lid—away from her elbow. She didn’t notice because she was concentrating on eating every scrap of donut on her plate.

Like a doctor during an initial exam, Marsali’s face remained expressionless as he moved the image around on the screen. “I can print a copy. I’ll take it back to my office, if you don’t mind.”

Feeling extremely computer inept since Marsali, probably in his seventies, was more computer savvy than me, I said, “Sure.”

“Make yourself at home.” Marsali crossed the room with a quick step, cradling the small computer in his hands.

I cleared the dishes and rinsed them in the sink. On the ledge of the window above the sink were three pots with small green stalks pushing through the dark soil. Must be from Marsali’s container gardening class. I needed to ask him how he liked it.

I cleared away the bakery box from Cobblestone and cleaned Livvy’s face and fingers. With that done, I looked around for something that Livvy could play with because I’d run out of the house so fast I’d forgotten to bring the diaper bag with her toys. I’d forgotten Pink Girl, but—thankfully—Livvy hadn’t noticed. Yet. I found a bowl of plastic fruit on the coffee table. I wiped the thin layer of dust off the fruit and settled Livvy in the middle of the rug.

Stepping over a pile of crossword puzzle books, I went to the bookshelves. Looking at someone’s books was as good a way to find out about them as looking through their trash. On Marsali’s bookshelves were a mishmash of educational tomes, reference books, photographs, and a few randomly interspersed decorative items. As I moved down the wall of shelves, I realized there was a pattern: Books were shelved in an orderly way, like all the dictionaries grouped together, until a certain point and then books were wedged in next to a photograph or a ceramic decoration. I paused in front of a snapshot of Marsali wearing his huge glasses posed next to a woman in a print dress. It was Pearl, Marsali’s wife, who had died two years ago.

He looked different than he did today and I couldn’t figure out why. Marsali was dressed just the same as he was today, cardigan sweater with white shirt and polyester pants. He was even wearing the same watch with a stretchy gold-plated band. Then I realized it was his face, his smile, that was different. He looked lively and content with Pearl. That contentment was missing from him now and a veneer of sorrow seemed to cover his face.

I stepped back, looked over the shelves, and realized Marsali must have kept them just as they were when Pearl was alive. She’d arranged the breaks in the books, placing photographs and knickknacks on the shelves. And Marsali hadn’t moved anything, just crammed his latest purchases in the open spaces until they edged up against Pearl’s decorating touches.

Marsali rushed back into the room, carrying the printout and the small computer. “Ellie! Where did you get this?”

I blinked at the look on his face. He didn’t look contented as he had in the snapshot with Pearl, but there was an exuberance, a suppressed excitement in his expression as he paced across the room, deposited his load on the kitchen table, and returned to pull a book off a high shelf.

“I think it belonged to Penny,” I said to Marsali’s back as he bent over the book on the table, flipping pages and muttering to himself.

He found what he wanted and slowed down. I crossed the room. He stared at the lazy Susan stacked with salt and pepper shakers and paper napkins without seeing it.

“The dates, the language, the spacing, the uncial letterforms.” He spoke quietly to himself. “It could be possible.”

“What?”

Marsali pulled out a chair and dropped into it. “Where is the original?”

“I don’t know. What do you think it is?”

“We’ve got to find it.” Marsali took a deep breath and ran his hand over the printed version of the text. “There is a possibility. It may be a copy of a letter addressed to one of the early Christian churches.”

“What?”

But he was in lecture mode and didn’t seem to hear my question. “There has to be more analysis, particularly of the original document, and tests to be made to date the ink and the material it is written on. Parchment is my guess, but we need the original. The language, the phrasing, needs further study, but it is an incredible document.”

“Why? Because of its age?” I sat down next to him.

Marsali focused on me and realized I wasn’t one of his advanced language students. “It is addressed to the saints in Laodicea.” He pointed to the text, even though I couldn’t read any of it. “Are you familiar with the structure of the first lines of Greek letters in New Testament times?”

I nodded. “Yes, I remember a pastor explaining the writer began with his own name, a salutation at the beginning of the letter, right?”

Marsali shoved the paper toward me. With a shaking index finger he traced a few letters at the beginning of the document. “That translates ‘Paul.’”

“Paul?” I looked from the printout to the book open near him. It was a Bible. “Paul? As in
Paul
, the author of most of the New Testament letters?”

“Yes!”

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.

“I know!” Marsali’s smile stretched his wrinkles.

I recovered enough to say, “So, this document”—I pointed to the small computer on the table between us—“this letter could be very valuable?”

“It could be. On the other hand, it might be an imitation. A forgery. Much further study is needed, but upon my initial glance at it, it appears genuine. The phrasing, the structure, the letter spacing, the subject matter. They are all what I’d expect.”

“What letter is it? What book is it?”

“It is a letter to the church at Laodicea.”

I certainly wasn’t a Bible scholar, but even I knew there wasn’t a book in the Bible called Laodiceans.

Marsali pushed the Bible across the table and pointed to a verse at the end of Colossians. I scanned the verse. “Okay. It says after the Colossian Christians read their letter, they should read the letter he sent to Laodicea.”

I looked up at Marsali, questioningly.

“A letter to the church at Laodicea has never been found.”

Chapter Twenty-seven

“S
o this could be very valuable.” I tapped the small computer. “Yes, assuming it is genuine. A find of this magnitude, well…” Marsali seemed to search for words and finished with a shrug. “It would be incredible, a lost book.”

“A book! That’s what he called it!” I’d been thinking of traditional books like the ones that lined the walls of Marsali’s living room, not a book out of the Bible. “This is what they’re looking for.” A tremor of relief mixed with fear ran through me. “You haven’t heard anything about this as an important new find?”

“No.” Marsali’s smile faded to concern. He spoke slowly. “And I have a friend, an archaeologist, who would want to discuss this, if he knew about it. So, I’d say this is being kept very quiet. If there was a hint that this was out there, Derrick would have called me.”

At least part of the last few weeks began to make sense. The threatening phone calls, the attempted mugging, even stealing and returning Rex were all parts of a plan to intimidate and get me to “give them the book.”