Catch a Falling Knife

o’clock or later they wouldn’t have been recorded.”
    “Perhaps you’ve done all you can on this murder,” Wesley said. “Maybe it’s time to rest and let the police handle it. You missed the bridge club again today. The chess club meets tomorrow afternoon. Maybe it’s time for you to get back into society.”
    Wesley had taken a greater interest in my well-being since our friendship had deepened. I tended to agree with him. I had helped to dig up enough evidence to point the finger of suspicion away from Mark. What else could I do?
     
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    Back in my own apartment, I decided to take Wesley’s advice and put the murder behind me. What had I done in the afternoons back when I was living a normal life? Sometimes I took a short nap. I didn’t feel sleepy. I read magazines like Reader’s Digest . I picked up the latest copy, which I hadn’t looked at yet. Maybe it would have a heart-warming story about somebody who had survived a disaster by overcoming overwhelming odds.
    I read some of the jokes and anecdotes because I couldn’t concentrate on anything longer. The stories in the “Life in these United States” section didn’t make me laugh. “Humor in Uniform” wasn’t humorous. I tossed the magazine aside and went looking for the poems I had copied from Donna’s personal notebook.
    After a five-minute search I found the poems underneath a pile of papers on top of my small desk. I carried them to my sunroom and sat on the sofa, basking in the afternoon rays that streamed through the wall-to-wall windows on three sides. I read all the poems I had copied and then read them again. I came back to one and read it for a third time. It was one Tess and I had puzzled over before. It had no title—none of the poems had—and it went like this:
    Will I shoot seven or eleven?
    Will I find a jewel that gleams?
    Will you lend your wand to me
    So I can wave it at my dreams?
    Keep it, Lady Luck.
    Each lass is Satan’s earthly prize.
    He makes angels run amuck
    And blinds them with his laser eyes.
    There was something wrong with this poem. At least, it wasn’t like Donna’s other poems, which were laid out in neat patterns. For example, the two limericks she had written, one about Elise and the other about Mark. The first four lines of this poem were smooth enough, but the line, “Keep it, Lady Luck,” was jarringly out of place.
    Perhaps Donna did that for emphasis, to call the reader’s attention to it. Poets, writers, were known to use various tricks. It was not a happy poem. Apparently, it was about unfulfilled dreams and the lure of sin. Girls had always dreamed; some girls were tempted to do things society didn’t approve of. Some wrote poems about their dreams and temptations. So what was new or different about this poem?
    In the limerick about Elise, Elise’s name had been spelled out by the first letters of each line, but no word in my dictionary started with three w’s. My field was mathematics and logic, not literature. I needed help. Sandra taught English. When did she get home from school?
    I called her number. She didn’t answer so I left her a message, saying that I was on my way over to her place.
     
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    Sandra’s condo was located not far from Silver Acres and I had been to it quite often so I had no trouble getting there. The condominiums were wooden, two-story buildings, on a cul-de-sac. They didn’t have garages so the owners parked on the street. Fortunately, there was a space next to Sandra’s little red Toyota; I pulled in there.
    I was happy to see that she was home now as I was too antsy to mount a stakeout. I went up the walkway and two concrete steps to the front door. These buildings were quite new and in good repair. Everything worked, including the doorbell, although this one’s ring had only two notes instead of the four notes of Frank Scott’s bell.
    Sandra opened the door after a short pause and said, “Hi, Gogi,” as if she was surprised to see me.
    She still had her teaching clothes on, consisting of a long skirt and a tailored blouse, and her long blond hair was in a pedagogical bun. She must have just arrived home and not checked her telephone messages yet.
    I kissed her, apologized for barging in on her and told her I needed help.
    “Give me five minutes to change my clothes and I’ll be right with you,” Sandra said. “Winston