He seemed twitchy as we walked. He kept taking turns staring at the path ahead and down at my hand. This left me feeling more than a little self-conscious about my bloody hand of all things. I kept wondering what he was seeing, what scar or smudge or chip in my polish would give him insight into my heritage, personality, or personal grooming habits.
About the time I expected him to declare that I had eaten salmon last Wednesday and would become an ardent Catholic in my seventies, I decided that this “observe and judge” quirk was his most irritating quality. I sighed and was just about to ask him what on earth was so damned fascinating about my hand when he reached across the gap between us and took it in his. He instantly calmed, and, despite my surprise, I felt my own inner tension soothe as well. I even smiled a bit. There was something wretchedly endearing about Sherlock’s manner. Even when he was irritating.
He, of course, had no idea what to do with my hand once he held it, and quickly returned to his twitchy ways. Luckily, I had only a few steps left to tolerate his grasping and swinging until we reached the window outside the café, where boats could be rented. All the while, I was determined not to acknowledge the familiarity I felt when we were together. I sometimes wasn’t sure if I was compensating for his awkwardness, or if this strange boy actually made me feel . . . whatever it was that makes one feel at home with a stranger. Like I’d known him forever.
As payback for this inner treachery, I made him struggle for almost a full minute with trying to remove his ID and money from his wallet one-handed before letting go of his hand, a thought that clearly hadn’t occurred to him.
Our boat was a blue fiberglass thing with a light wood floor, two blue benches, and orange oars. Number 28.
“Any thoughts on our case?” he asked, once we were out on the water.
I, in fact, had many, but I covered with, “You first.”
“How shall we start our little game?”
“I’m not sure I want to play yet.”
His eyes practically lit up with the news. “Oh, well. I can’t blame you for being intimidated, having so much less experience with these things.”
“Oh? Solved a lot of crimes, have you?”
That was evidently the exact right thing to say. I hated how much he was enjoying this. “I meant with deductive reasoning. The crime is incidental to the puzzle.”
“Our schoolmate’s father is dead, but, yes—incidental.”
He shrugged off my sarcasm. “Still, I’ll understand if—”
I knew what he was doing. He couldn’t have been more obvious, and still I interrupted his smug ridiculousness with, “You worry about you. I’ll worry about me.”
I watched as his lip twitched, but he managed to suppress whatever expression might have escaped. “I thought you weren’t going to play.”
“I’m not.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I thought you should know there’s to be a memorial. Tomorrow at two. I’m invited.”
He couldn’t have known it was a lie, no matter how high his brows raised after I’d said it.
“You may tag along if you’d like.”
I was pretty sure that his next expression was mocking, but he only said, “How kind of you.”
“So . . .” I looked out over the lake and watched the swans for a bit.
“We should probably get started.”
“And how would we do that?” I tried to act bored, and then added, “Were I to decide to play along. Which I haven’t yet.”
“As you said.”
My expression dared him to comment further. He did not. He was perhaps wiser than first impressions would indicate.
“We should probably recognize up front that this will likely be some sort of mundane puzzle.”
“Why?”
“Because most puzzles are horribly mundane.”
“Then why bother?”
“Because until we have the data to prove otherwise, there is still the possibility that it will fascinate.”
“And what’s so fascinating about a stabbing in the park? I’m sure they happen all the time.”
I knew the answer, of course. I knew it before he smirked and leaned in closer than I would have preferred. I could have mouthed the words as he spoke them.
“His hands were in his pockets.”
The one clue that shouldn’t have meant anything, yet meant everything, because it didn’t make any sense at all. “It’s impossible.” I’d spoken aloud unintentionally, and couldn’t seem to stop once I’d started. “There must be some alternative explanation. Perhaps the killer put his hands back in his pockets after the fact. It has to be something like that.”
“Why in the world would he do it? There’s no reason.”
“But it has to be,” I countered. “There isn’t a single scenario where a person being attacked would leave his hands in his pockets.”
“If the killer was very close before he pulled out the knife, maybe Patel didn’t see it.”
“After he was stabbed, then. It takes less than a second to rip your hands from your pockets. He would have tried to cover the wound. It’s in our nature to do it, even when we’re too late to stop the knife and it’s useless to stop the bleeding. We try. Until our last breath, we try.”