“May we help you?” Watson replied. With her growing-out military haircut and newly purchased “girl clothes,” as she calls them, part of her job is to approach arriving clients and barricade me from the initial contact. That gives me time to assess.
My first assessment: this morning’s visitor was dressed like a handsome groom on a wedding cake. Hardly predictable at seven on an October morning. The young man—late twenties, I calculated—held a carryout cup of coffee in a white paper container.
“Annabelle Holmes?” He looked at Watson, then at me, then back at Watson. He appeared to be deciding which of us he sought—the scarecrow in the black jeans, black T-shirt, spectacles, and ponytail, or the short-haired cherub in the flowered skirt.
This bridegroom, or possibly waiter, was clearly flustered: his cheeks were stubbled, dark hair in disarray, bow tie slanted askew. One of the black onyx studs in his shirtfront placket was missing.
“I see you have not rented that evening wear,” I said, standing and holding out a welcoming hand. “That you are health conscious. And that you are left-handed.” I hid my smile at his wide-eyed response. “I am Annabelle Holmes. How can we be of service, Mr.—Arthur?”
“Health conscious? Left-handed?” The man fairly sputtered in surprise as he shook mine. “And how did you know my name?”
“And I must ask, since you are clearly in . . .” I paused, choosing my word carefully. “. . . distress. Are you missing the bride to your groom?”
“Missing the bride? How did you know?” He blinked at his reflection in the front window. “I see. Yes, I’m Arthur. Arthur Daley. But how did you know that?”
I glanced at Watson, who, as always, looked at me for answers. She still has not learned how I analyze small details and how they combine to create larger answers. Sometimes it is not difficult.
“Your name has been written on your coffee cup, sir,” I said. “And marked with your health-conscious choice for skim milk.”
Watson rolled her eyes. “You kill me,” she muttered.
“Your watch is on your right arm, as left-handers prefer,” I went on. “As for the attire, your initials are embroidered on your right cuff, meaning that jacket was tailored for you. Now, will you take a seat? Please tell us the reason for your visit.”
“Thank you.” Mr. Daley sat in the one empty chair in our office, a ladder-backed swivel inherited from the now-shuttered copper mining museum at the end of Lodestar Street. Our local copper industry faded in the late 19th century, but its lore and lure have branded our little town since then. Our sturdy office bookshelves, the pockmarked wood now filled with my favorite textbooks and research materials, were once used in the museum library.
“My partner,” Mr. Daley began, “has received a, well, I’m not sure what word I would use. Unusual? Disturbing? Confusing? Series of emails. It might be spam, I suppose, except I think my partner was clearly upset by it.”
“Partner?” I imagined many possible clarifications for this imprecise word choice. “Personal? Professional? Or both?”
“Both.” Daley swiveled left, then right, then back again, fidgeting. The peevish hinge connecting the seat to the base squeaked in protest. “Wait. I’ll show you.”
He slid his slim fingers into his jacket pocket, extracted a cell phone in a black plastic case. He tapped a few keys, then paused, waiting. “Before I tell you about the emails, let me play you a video,” he said.
I heard a few measures of an old-fashioned tune, one of my favorites, Ella Fitzgerald’s version of Cole Porter’s “Our Love Is Here to Stay,” its distinctive opening minor key instantly recognizable even through the phone’s tiny speaker.
Watson approached as Daley held out the screen, and we both leaned in to watch. The music continued, and we saw an empty room with an expanse of wooden floor. One wall was a floor-to-ceiling mirror. Doors in the others might lead to other rooms, or perhaps closets.
“Where’s this?” Watson asked.
No explanation was necessary, though, as after the introductory notes, the room was no longer empty. Three couples—Daley and another man in evening clothes, one in an ill-fitting sport coat, and three women wearing flowing ankle-length dresses—whirled into the scene. As the music played, the couples dipped and twirled, dancing an elegant if elementary fox-trot. Forward forward side close, I could almost hear the instructions as I watched. I’d been sent to dancing lessons as a young girl. To my mother’s delight, I became quite proficient. As my family’s fortunes changed, and my attentions were turned elsewhere, my dancing days ended.
Even from this tiny video, I could see that the dancer in our visitor’s arms held center stage. She fairly glowed with bliss. I smiled, with a bit of nostalgia, as Arthur Daley dipped her backwards, her toes pointed, her long dark hair almost brushing the dance floor. Then, seemingly with no effort, he swept her back onto her feet and they twirled gracefully away.