Literary Terrorist

By Claire S. Cabot

Literary Terrorist is the second in a series about Adelaide Stubbs, a successful international jet-setting handwriting analyst who solves mysteries with her unique skill. Adelaide is accompanied by her often amusing husband, Butch, who owns an explosives and ammunitions company. Like her first book in the series, Write Is Wrong, Claire coauthored with Susan Baumbach Parry. Literary Terrorist often coincides with Butchs business travels. The end results are stories of intrigue, mystery, and adventure in far-off places.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543467055

Claire S. Cabot

Ms. Cabot has been a feature and travel writer for newspapers such as The Boston Globe, The New York Times, and The Middletown Press, as well as being a staff writer for several Connecticut regional magazines. She is also a certified Graphoanalyst and member of The International Graphoanalysis Society, The American Association of Handwriting Analyst, and The New England Society for Handwriting Analyst. Claire lives happily on the North Shore of Boston, Massachusetts with her husband Sam Cabot. Between them they have four children and six grandchildren.

Book preview

Chapter One

Alexandria, Egypt

She was petite, her eyes a deep brown, her complexion flawless, void of any imperfections. Clearly, despite the hot sun and arid climate, she had been pampered. One could not see the color of her hair beneath several Hermés scarves elegantly wrapped around her head, but one imagined it was black. Her chiseled profile rivaled Nefertiti’s.

Getting in the rear of her limousine, she gave orders to her driver: Take me to the office. She opened her briefcase and began to examine her book. She had read and reread the content. It must be perfect, she thought. She quickly flipped through the pages. She knew the entire 100-page book by heart. Was it inspirational enough? Would it accomplish what she intended? It had to…

It was early in the morning. Alexandria was beginning its workday. Shopkeepers were raising their heavy steel doors and opening for business. A boy on a bicycle held one hand on a flat tray on his head filled with bread. He darted nimbly in between cars and rode quickly along Salah Salem until the street changed its name to Midan Tahrir.

The driver of the car rang the bell of the white stucco three-story building. A young boy opened the door. He recognized the driver, who turned and motioned to his employer to come forward. She stepped out of the limousine with her briefcase and entered the vestibule.

The small room had a black and white mosaic floor with a small chandelier of grey and white crystals.

Right this way, madam. The young boy ushered her to an elevator.

She turned and gave instructions to her driver. Come back for me in an hour and keep your cell phone on.

Chapter Two

Cairo, Egypt

Mohammed finished his homework early. He wanted to get to the marketplace by 3:00, when he knew the American tourists would be visiting the old section of Cairo. As he ran down the stairs in his apartment building, his mother called out to him in Arabic: Be home by 6:00, Mohammed. Your father doesn’t like you to be late.

Mohammed’s voice echoed down the hallway. I will, Mama, I promise. He didn’t look back; he had no time as he ran through the streets with the muezzin calling everyone to prayer. The rhythmic chant filled the air. Men knelt on their brightly colored prayer rugs on the sidewalk and bowed to Mecca while repeating prayers. Buses and cars didn’t move. Impatient drivers honked their horns in frustration, imagining that the sound would make the logjam of cars move. Mohammed moved quickly, past the spice shop with large bags of open turmeric, cardamom, and cinnamon. The scent would have refreshed him, had he paid attention. An orange-colored cat jumped up onto the counter of the spice shop. His owner laughed and waved him affectionately off onto the floor.

Mohammed found his uncle Ishmael’s shop. Uncle, lend me ten necklaces today. I feel lucky. I know this will be a good day for me. Please, Uncle; I will sell them, you will see.

Ishmael stood up from his prayers and looked at his nephew.

With you…you always say you are lucky. You are a funny boy, Mohammed. If you feel lucky, you will be lucky, but be careful because the police are all over the place today. You know how they hate young boys badgering the tourists.

I don’t badger. My English is getting better every day. You will see, Uncle. Mohammed smiled at his uncle.

You’re a good boy, Mohammed. You’ll go far.

Mohammed took ten necklaces, each made of a thick black cord strung with six blue ceramic scarabs. He carefully looped them on his right arm and stood up proudly. He looked out of Ishmael’s shop and headed to the right. Always head towards Mecca; it is good luck, he thought.

The tourists were very easy to distinguish. Most of them wore sunglasses, and often hats. Stupid hats, mostly. The women frequently carried big pocketbooks. Big pocketbooks meant they were shoppers. He looked for women older than his mother. Young girls would buy his necklaces too, but the older women usually would buy more than one—sometimes four or five. He liked practicing his English. Maybe he would be a professor when he grew up; maybe an Egyptologist, like Eman, the pretty guide who helped him sometimes when she brought groups to the market.

As he approached a woman wearing a blue blouse and tan trousers, he asked, "Lady, you want to buy necklace? I give you good price. Lady, please. Only three Egyptian dollars. Please, lady.’

The woman looked at him and smiled. No English. Italiano. She laughed.

Fantistico! Mohammed smiled back at her. Only three Egyptian pounds. He held up three fingers. The woman shook her head. Uno pound. Solo uno. She held up one finger.

Please, lady; that’s too little. Mohammed held up his hands, showing a short space between his index finger and thumb.

Duo necklaces for three pounds. Clearly, she enjoyed the repartee.

O.K. Mohammed wanted to make a quick sale.

The woman pulled out three one-pound coins from her pocket and handed them over.

Grazie, signora, grazie. Mohammed saw one of the plainclothes policeman walking up the street. He darted into the nearest shop and ran into the back.

Boy, get out of here. My shop is not a refuge for street vendors. A tall man wearing a full-length grey robe with a v-shaped neckline and white cotton turban emerged from the rear. Oh, Mohammed, it is you. Are you hiding from the police? How is your uncle Ishmael?

He is very good today. Can I help you? I want to grow up to be smart and important like you, Hosni, please.

Actually, you want to learn how to be very smart? ‘You never tell one man another man’s business.’ I will give you your first lesson. You can run an errand for me. Take this book up to Ahmed’s spice shop. Give it directly to him. MAKE SURE YOU GIVE IT ONLY TO HIM. Hosni wrote Ahmed’s full name and address in Arabic and then in English on the front of a large manila envelope.

Thank you. I will go right now.

Here. Put your necklaces in here until you pass the policeman and deliver the book. Take this sweet. Hosni handed him a small date rolled in sugar with a large almond impressed into the top.

Mohammed was out of Hosni’s sight before he looked at the book. It was in English. It had a bright yellow cover with a thin red line and black lettering: Always Be Ready was written in large script. He opened the cover and noticed that the word Draft was stamped in red on the first page of chapter one. He took out the necklaces and slipped them onto his arm.

Just as he slipped the book back into the manila envelope, a lady wearing a bright pink shirt and white skirt approached him.

Those necklaces are very pretty. How much are they?

Five dollars, but for you four dollars.

What’s your name? The woman picked up a necklace and examined the workmanship of the scarabs.

Mohammed.

What do you want to be when you grow up? she asked, looking at the handwriting on the manila envelope.

I want to be an Egyptologist, Mohammed answered.

Excellent. Do you do well in school?

Yes, I study very hard. Mohammed did not smile.

"Well, what if I buy all seven necklaces you have left so you can go home and study?’’

That would be very good.

Do you know what I do?

No, madam. I do not.

I study people’s handwritings the way you will study hieroglyphics. Can I please take a closer look at the front part of your envelope? I will give you information which could become important to you later on.

Very reluctantly, Mohammed let her see the outside of the envelope.

You may think this person is a good person, but this person is not honest. What if I buy all the necklaces for three dollars each?

Please, four dollars per necklace, madam. I am saving for university.

You strike a hard bargain! Adelaide Stubbs reached into her pocketbook and took out twenty-eight dollars. Very best of luck to you. I hope you make it to the university.

Thank you, lady, thank you.

Chapter Three

A Trip to Town

Adelaide Stubbs flipped her calendar to the first page of the new year. She wrote down Chile for the dates of January 27th through February 12th. Her husband, Butch, was going to be giving a speech at the American Embassy commemorating the fortieth anniversary of the founding of the Peace Corps in that country. Today, Chile has one of the most successful economies in South America and does not need the help of the United States government, but both countries liked the idea of celebrating the Peace Corps’ achievements.

The phone rang on her line. Adelaide Stubbs, handwriting analyst, she answered promptly. She could see by her telephone identification that the call was coming from the Albany Forensic Laboratory in New York.

Mrs. Stubbs, this is Christopher Thomas. I am a forensic scientist in Albany, New York, and your name was referred to me by Dr. Gee in Hartford, Connecticut. The man spoke with a distinctive Scottish accent.

Oh, Dr. Gee; yes, he is a very impressive man. I have had the pleasure of working with him before. I am grateful that he passed my name along. How can I help you?

We have a very interesting case. The father in a family has been murdered and we think his daughter might have committed suicide. At surface value, it looks like a classic murder/suicide case. The girl left a note; however, some family members think it isn’t her handwriting. They suspect another family member. Dr. Thomas’s voice was pleasant sounding, and Adelaide enjoyed listening to his accent. We have undergone lots of budget cuts and have had to let our full-time handwriting expert go. Would you be willing to work with us on a contract basis?

I certainly would be willing to help you. Do you have handwriting samples of the suicide note and then other samples of her writing? The more samples with dates, the better. In fact, handwriting samples from the entire family might be of value. Adelaide reached for her daybook and a pen.

If it would be helpful to you, I will e-mail you a picture right now which we took of her body. Dr. Gee gave me your e-mail address.

Adelaide opened her e-mail. Oh, yes; here is your message. Let me just open up the attachment. There before Adelaide was an incredible picture. The image was of a very pretty young girl in her early twenties, with long, dark wavy hair, lying in bed. Her eyes were closed. Her fingernails were a shiny deep red. She was holding a note. Around her neck was a beautiful pendant of silver and gold. The symbol on the pendant was the image of a large-leafed tree within a circle. The buxom young woman’s white blouse was made of thin cotton with an embroidered floral design. Innocently, she looked as if she were only sleeping. On the table next to the bed, the corner of a brightly colored yellow book was barely visible.

God, what a tragedy. What a beautiful young woman. Did she die from poison? I don’t see any wounds. This is not my purview, but I can’t help but comment on her necklace. My husband and I go to Chile every year, and the one this young woman is wearing is a symbol which is typical in the Patagonia region of the Andes. Is this family Chilean, by any chance? Adelaide asked curiously.

Dr. Thomas responded enthusiastically. That is quite remarkable. You are correct on two counts. The young woman appears to have poisoned herself and geographically, you are very close. This family comes from Argentina. Dr. Thomas paused. So, I take it you are willing to help us.

Yes, certainly; I will be delighted. If you could scan the samples of handwritings made before the suicide note and then the note itself and send them to me today, I will perform the analysis within the next few days. Let’s see now, I have your e-mail with your address, a telephone number…Ah, here it is…all at the end of your message. Perfect, yes. Do send me that information, and I will try to get this done for you as quickly as possible. We are actually on our way to Chile and Argentina at the end of the month.

You sound like you are a great traveler, Dr. Thomas offered up in a friendlier tone, now that his business had been transacted.

Yes, my husband does business in Chile, so we combine business and pleasure quite often. In fact, we just got back from Scotland and Egypt. Do I denote a slight brogue from you, Dr. Thomas?

You do, lassie, and please call me Christopher!

Adelaide couldn’t help but laugh. She loved the Scottish accents. What part of that beautiful country do you call home?

I was born in Fife, but have lived here for the last twenty years. My wife is an American and this country has been good to me. We go back every other year to see my brother and his family.

Adelaide glanced at the clock. We have a wonderful time on driven shoots in the Selkirk area. But don’t let me waste your time; I could talk all day on the Scottish front!

Thank you. I will look forward to hearing from you.

Butch Stubbs walked into the office he shared with Adelaide and turned on his computer, which sat beside hers. Outside, the bright sunshine reflected off the snow. It was a perfect cold, clear winter’s day. Butch glanced outside the attic window and put his right hand up to his forehead.

Yup, just like the realtor said, winter views of the ocean! They both laughed. Indeed, on a bright clear day in the winter when the leaves were down, distant views of Manaport harbor were visible from their Victorian house.

Did I hear the phone ring? Butch asked as he settled himself in his chair. Mousetrap, their omnipresent black and white cat, looked up from the small sofa to acknowledge Butch’s entrance.

"It was a Dr. Christopher Thomas from