Not One Clue_ A Mystery - Lois Greiman [14]
“What career are you considering?” I asked.
“I’ll become a vascular surgeon.” No equivocation. No “I hope” or “I might.”
“So you’re interested in medicine.”
Her hesitation was almost imperceptible. “It’s quite fascinating.”
“So are crickets.”
“What?”
I gave her a smile. This trying-to-act-intelligent stuff was already wearing on my nerves. “I’ve always thought crickets were fascinating.”
She blinked. Her hands, white-knuckled with close-cropped fingernails, were clasped atop her lap. “You’re interested in entomology?”
I didn’t try to explain my sense of humor. She wouldn’t be the first to mistake it for lunacy. “How long have you wanted to become a surgeon?”
She shook her head, an almost negligible toggle of her head. “For as long as I can remember.”
I wondered how long her parents had wanted her to become a surgeon, but I wasn’t quite ready to pose that question. “So your grades are good?”
“For the most part. I’m somewhat concerned about Physics.”
Somewhat concerned. God save the children. “Ninety-two percentile?” I guessed.
Her mouth tightened a little more. “If I receive less than a seventy-nine percent I’m in danger of an A minus.”
I nodded. There were no perfectionists in my family. In fact, there was some question regarding the actual species of a couple of my brothers, but I had seen enough self-inflicted perfectionism to recognize it when it sat on my couch and clasped its hands. “Is that why you cut yourself?”
It was all guesswork. I knew almost nothing about her, but the signs were there if anyone wanted to see them.
I wouldn’t have thought she could get any paler. Wrong again. She shifted her arms the slightest degree, but refrained from tugging down her sleeves. The epitome of self-control.
“They were only superficial incisions,” she said. “And just once.”
I nodded and settled in.
“Ms. Christina?”
I jumped, spun around, and jammed my spine up against the door of my humble domicile. Maybe that seems like dramatic behavior, but I’d had one hell of a day at the office, and sometimes I prefer to know ahead of time when people are planning to kill me on my front stoop.
In this case, however, my visitor was just my next-door neighbor, Ramla Al-Sadr. Her attire had changed somewhat in the past few years. She no longer wore the traditional robes and full-face veil. Now she favored pretty head scarves, and colorful gowns. Although, she had informed me years ago that virtually all Muslim women appreciated a nice G-string under their burka. Ramla had taught me a fair amount about Islam, but her very best attribute, in my own humble opinion, was the high unlikelihood that she would ever attempt to kill me. Still, it took some time for my heart to decide to remain in my chest.
“Yes. Hi. Ramla. Hi.” I considered trying to shuffle the bag of lo mein and fried rice into my purse hand so as to hug her, but it was too bulky. “How are you?”
She stared at me, dark eyes somber. “I am not so very well.”
“Oh?” Due to Shirley’s early-morning long john offering, I had opted to skip lunch. Hence, the smell of lo meiny goodness was all but overwhelming. “What’s wrong?”
“It is my sister.”
I frowned, trying to focus on her words instead of noodles in white sauce. “I thought you said she was doing better. That she and her husband had made amends.”
“That is what she told me.”
I sighed and lowered the bag. Lo mein goodness would have to wait. “What happened?”
“I have no word from her in two weeks of time.”
Damnit. I glanced toward her yard. It was, as always, groomed to gleaming perfection. Considering the wasteland of my own property, it was a small miracle she would even speak to me. “How often do you usually hear from her?”
“Once each week, without the exception.”
“Maybe she’s having phone difficulties.”
“Then she would write the letter.”
I was scrambling. “Maybe—” I began, but she shook her head.
“There is trouble.”
There was something about the way she said the words that made the hair prickle on the back of my neck. “What makes you so