Tedmund and the Murdered Heiress

By John Mitton

Young, well-intentioned, introverted, intellectual, and socially inept, Tedmund "Ted" Strickland moves from Upstate New York to New York City. There he attends university, earns a degree in finance, and lands a plum job with a brokerage firm. He unwittingly finds himself flung into social circles he'd never willingly have entered. He had been bullied as a youth, and now manipulated as an adult. Unexpectedly, Ted receives a call from a woman he once had a crush on, the heiress Violet Naysmyth Hunter. Violet, whose husband is a poor boy from The Bronx who made good, is less than a year married. She confides in Ted about her plan to start a family. Within an hour or so of their conversation, Violet is found murdered in her Manhattan town house. Lieutenant Paton and Detective Ramirez of the NYPD are determined to apprehend Violet's killer. The crime scene shows no signs of a break-in, giving rise to the theory that the victim knew her killer. Violet's husband, cousins, servants, and friends either have a plausible alibi or lack a motive. Yet the victim and the suspects all have secrets. Further, to Paton's and Ramirez's astonishment, everything connects back to Ted. After Ted finds himself a person of interest in the death of Violet, he plots his next moves carefully. Paton and Ramirez realize they must be meticulous if they are to bring Violet's killer to justice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 27, 2020
• ISBN: 9781645846505

Book preview

Chapter 1

I

Detective Pedro Ramirez hated being called in on a Saturday. He hated that he was pulled from Midtown, to assist the Upper West Side precinct, part of an equalization of cases project started by the department. He’d hate it even more, if Saturday spilled over into Sunday, and since the first forty-eight hours in a homicide case were the most vital, he had an inkling that was where things were headed.

Ramirez entered the Upper West Side town house and immediately put on a pair of blue nitrile rubber gloves, handed to him by a uniformed officer. The crime scene had yet to be dusted for prints. He surveyed his surroundings and let out a low whistle. Look at this place, he said more to himself.

Yeah, nice if you can afford it, the uniformed officer commented.

This way, Detective, another uniformed officer pointed.

Ramirez glimpsed a small black suitcase next to the stairs leading to the second floor. He walked into the living room and focused on the fireplace, the surround carved from white Carrara marble. Below the mantel, five quatrefoil panels with rosette inserts were polished and buffed smooth so as to gleam as if made of glass. The hearth opening was arched in a Tudor style, but what drew his instant attention was the black cast iron grate contained remnants of ashes. This indicated someone had recently used it. He found that suspicious; September had been unusually warm, no need for a fire.

The deceased lay, on an elaborately woven Persian rug, between the fireplace and a brown pucker-button antique leather settee with intricately carved mahogany legs, which were elegantly supported with claw and ball feet. It had definitely been reupholstered. From the blood splatter, Ramirez reasoned the victim had been seated on it when she was killed. A team was already snapping photographs.

Ramirez.

He heard his name and turned to see Lieutenant Paton walking toward him. Hey, so what’s the story?

The husband’s in the dining room, she said. He’s a wreck. His name is Andrew Hunter. He said he went out for a walk. He and the victim had a discussion this morning about starting a family. He arrived back about 12:50 p.m., and he found her murdered. He called it in immediately.

Did he see any suspicious characters hanging around? Any signs of a break-in?

He says he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. No signs of a break-in so far, but we haven’t checked the upstairs.

The victim? he asked.

Paton wiped a lock of her golden-blond hair from her forehead. Violet Hunter, maiden name Naysmyth, twenty-three years old, just a few days under a year married. She is the heiress to the Naysmyth fortune. Her late father owned a brokerage firm, Naysmyth Global Financial. It’s not far from our precinct.

Oh yeah, the medium rise on West Thirty-Eighth Street near Seventh Avenue, said Ramirez.

Killed, I believe, from one blow to the head, from a brass fire poker. The autopsy will tell us more, Paton continued. The poker has been bagged and sent in for prints. Mr. Hunter says he lit a fire last night and used the poker.

Ramirez rolled his eyes. Isn’t that convenient. Who else had access to the house?

The butler, the cook, and the housekeeper—

Ramirez interrupted, Let’s say the butler did it. He used the candlestick in the library.

Paton shot him a look, which told him to button his lip. She was in a no-nonsense mood this afternoon.

Ramirez said, Sorry. He respected Donna Paton, an eighteen-year veteran—tough, honest, someone who took the time to share her expertise with him. Ramirez joined the force seven years ago; this was his first year as a detective.

She went on. Two cousins also had keys. That’s all Mr. Hunter could say. Also, we’re in luck, the victim’s cell wasn’t password protected. According to the timeline provided by Mr. Hunter, he left the house at approximately 11:20 a.m. At 11:24 a.m., she calls a guy named Ted Strickland.

Did Hunter say who Strickland is?

Just a friend, so Hunter says. Hunter’s in bad shape. He called the family lawyer to get him a doctor. He’s going to move into the Waldorf for the time being. I have told him firmly, but nicely, he’ll have to come down and give the rest of his statement tomorrow.

Ramirez questioned, Strickland is just a friend? He sighed. That means we’re working tomorrow?

You betcha. In the next two days we need to cover as much ground as we can. I also want you to contact Strickland, the two cousins, and there’s one more. The victim also called someone named Lila Strum. She goes by the nickname Bunny. Track her down as well. Please also contact the servants. I want to start the interviews tomorrow, so line up as many of them as you can.

II

Ted Strickland wore a blue tie, a white shirt, his tanned pleather jacket, dress pants, and black shoes, but not his best shoes. He rested his clasped hands on the interview table; his head slightly drooped. His demeanor seemed both sad and anxious.

Paton waited. Ramirez was running late. Sorry, traffic, he said, as he came through the door.

Who’s the seventeen-year-old? Ramirez asked Paton. He viewed Ted from outside the interview room.

Mr. Tedmund Strickland. The DMV has him at twenty-two years old.

Wow, he’s not the Casanova I pictured. Ramirez raised an eyebrow and assessed the witness, a nice-looking preppy kid. He had thick dark black hair neatly styled, no visible tattoos or piercings. His black-framed glasses complemented his young face; he was a little on the thin side. Who knows the victim may like his type. I bet he gets carded everywhere he goes.

Remember, every witness can lead us to, or is, a potential suspect, Paton commented.

Ted rose to meet Paton and Ramirez, shook their hands and received their cards as the introductions were made. Ted waited until Paton invited him to take a seat.

Like a little well-mannered schoolboy, mused Ramirez.

Mr. Strickland, Paton said, I am sorry to bring you in, and thank you. You must have been good friends with Mrs. Hunter. We need your help to solve this case. I will begin. How did you meet her?

Ted cleared his throat. Mrs. Hunter—Vi is what she went by—we were both hired in the summer of 2012, by Naysmyth Global Financial, to do a project on file modernization. It was just basic stuff. At that time, her father was the CEO and president of the firm. I didn’t know she was his daughter. We became friends. We added each other on Facebook. She confided at the end of our work term that her father was the president of the company. We worked as interns at Naysmyth in 2013 and again in 2014. She didn’t complete her 2014 internship.

Detective Ramirez had put his jacket over his chair. This morning he decided to be casual. His biceps bulged; his pectoral muscles pressed tight into his T-shirt. He wore light-beige khaki pants. His shaved head, which made his face sternly striking with his high cheekbones and chin slightly thrust out, was supported by a strong neck. His narrow dark eyes viewed Ted. His lips betrayed no emotion.

Did you both go to the same university? he asked.

No, she went to Dartmouth, and I attended NYU.

Ramirez’s face changed. He gave Ted a let’s-talk-men-talk look when he asked; During those summer months, was there a summer fling with you and Mrs. Hunter?

No, Ted’s voice cracked; his face grew hot, and he began to sweat. We were friends. She wasn’t interested in me.

Why not? You’re a good-looking guy. I bet you have a way with the ladies, Ramirez followed up.

Ted took a deep breath. Please, sir, don’t make fun of me. Vi went for the athletic type.

I wasn’t making fun of you. Ramirez looked at him and felt his blood starting to heat. So, she liked athletic guys?

Ted exhaled; he was now self-conscious. Yes, she liked athletic guys. Guys like you. Guys like you run roughshod over guys like me.

Ramirez’s tone climbed slightly as he stared down at Ted. Listen. You don’t know me. I would never run roughshod over anyone. Ted’s rush to judgment rankled Ramirez. He had a sore spot for being branded as any type of bully.

I am sorry, Ted apologized meekly. I meant no offense. I’m just saying she liked guys with a good build like you. I don’t know why I am being asked all this.

Donna Paton didn’t hide her annoyance with Ramirez. Settle down, Detective. I will ask the questions.

She decided to ask something innocuous. How did you do at NYU?

Oh, really good. Ted gave a faint smile. I made the dean’s list every year.

Where do you work now? Paton inquired.

I am still with Naysmyth as a research analyst, said Ted. I was hired just after I graduated and started in May 2015.

Mr. Strickland, tell us about the phone call you and Mrs. Hunter had yesterday, Paton asked.

I wasn’t in New York. I was up in Tiryns, which is where I come from, at my Great-Aunt Gerdy’s funeral. Her actual name is Gertrude.

Paton’s eyes widened in sympathy. I am sorry, Mr. Strickland. Were you close?

Yes, she lived only a block and a half away from us.

I mean emotionally.

She was like a third grandmother, so yeah, we were. The funeral had finished. Our church has a lot at the back where we hold barbecues in the summer, fall bazaars, and things like that. That’s where we held the lunch after the funeral. There’s a church women’s committee. They made soup, sandwiches, tea, coffee, little cakes, stuff like that. We had just started when my cell hummed. I set it to vibrate so as not to interrupt the service.

Are you a regular churchgoer? interjected Ramirez.

Paton suppressed her ire and wondered if Ramirez had tossed in an oddball question to throw Ted off. If Ted were lying, oddball questions would start to confuse him. Truth comes from memory. Lies are just stories, and it’s tough to keep them straight if you’re interrupted.

Ted replied, To be honest, since I came to New York, I go maybe once a month. I should start going more often. He then continued, I hadn’t seen Vi in months. Since her marriage, we mostly interacted on Facebook. By that I mean, I just read her posts. When she visited the office, she always came by to see me. Her phone call surprised me, because it was so out of the ordinary. She didn’t realize I wasn’t in New York; although, I posted on Facebook, I was going to the funeral. She told me she was sorry to hear about my great-aunt. She then said, she and Andrew—Andrew Hunter, her husband—had decided to have a baby, but she was scared.

Scared? Paton repeated in the form of a question.

Her mother died in childbirth. She was scared the same thing could happen to her. She said she and Andrew had talked about it that morning, and they had decided to get counseling to help her get over her fear. I told her, I was really happy for her and Andrew; then added, I knew she would be a terrific mother. She had to go and we said goodbye. That’s it.

Ted paused and then went on, After I got the call from the police, I wrote everything down to the best I could remember. I spoke with Vi for about seven minutes. My phone logged the time from 11:24 a.m. to 11:31 a.m.

He handed Lieutenant Paton a folded piece of paper.

Very thorough of you, Mr. Strickland, thank you, she said.

I really want to help. Ted’s tone choked up. You couldn’t meet a nicer person than Vi."

One last thing, tell us about her relationship with her husband? Paton asked.

From what I know, they were the perfect couple. I was out of the loop. One more thing, I know Andrew, but not well. He seems like a good guy.

Paton was about to tell Ted he could leave, when Ramirez asked, Can I call you Ted or Teddy?

Ted, Ted guardedly responded.

Well Ted, just wondering, how much does a guy like you make? Ramirez inquired.

Paton found both questions inappropriate. However, Ramirez was new, and she wanted to see where this line of questioning would lead him.

Ted felt uneasy and squirmed in his chair. He gave a sigh. I make $80,000 annually.

Ramirez nodded. You know, Ted, I wasn’t disrespecting you. You’re a good-looking guy. I am sure you’ll meet someone.

Ted’s face betrayed his puzzlement. Sure, thanks.

Lieutenant Paton said, Let me walk you out.

III

What the hell happened in there? Donna Paton asked Ramirez. You lost your cool for no reason, and I couldn’t follow your line of questioning. ‘Can I call you Teddy?’ What was that about?

Ramirez started to like Ted; he thought him a straight-shooter, no bull. The kid said what was on his mind.

The kid labeled me a bully. I saw it in his face. All right, I should’ve held back, but since I was a teenager, I have been wrongly mistaken for being a member in some Hispanic gang. This has caused people to be frightened of me. I am not the bad guy. I became a police officer to serve and protect. Sorry, I had a late night. I’m a bit tired.

Had a fight with Rosita again? Paton gave him a look.

Nah, we broke up. I’m not ready to discuss my new flame. Ramirez quieted.

And the other questions?

‘Can I call you Teddy?’ was me being friendly. All right, I might have scared him. I just wanted him to know I wasn’t the badass he assumed. The other questions, I just wanted some background information. He’s a nice kid, polite, well educated, earns good pay, not bad-looking, has good manners and goes to church sometimes. I think he’d be a good match for my cousin Pilar.

Donna Paton’s face clouded with disbelief; she thought she had heard everything.

Listen, Ramirez, we’re trying to find a killer, not potential suitors for your extended family. Got it!

Got it, Lieutenant, Ramirez said and then thought, No, not a potential suitor. This guy is husband material.

Ted Bio

I

I am weak.

If I were strong, I would have been real cool with jock cop Ramirez when he questioned me. He deliberately flexed his pumped biceps. I took it as a sign he wanted to bully me. Boy, he was one mean-looking muscle-bound guy, not ugly, but he had the stare of a gang member you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley. From his shaved head, his voice boomed with a strong Bronx accent. I understood the police played good cop, bad cop. I guessed him to be bad cop. My initial gut reaction to him was apprehension. I hate the fact I am weak. I am not the type of guy who would have had a snappy comeback for Ramirez when he asked me, if I was good with the ladies. Something like, Sure am, Ramirez. Women like a guy who is all-natural, not some bloated dude whose steroids caused his hair to fall out and his package to shrink. Once I relaxed, I figured beneath his jock-cop facade Ramirez was probably an all right guy. He was more than likely just doing his job. As the interview progressed, he seemed to slip out of his jock-cop mode, and he became quite friendly. Toward the end of my interview, he made a mild apology for his question on my romantic pursuits. He even said, I was a good-looking kid.

I was a witness, not a suspect. Vi and I had been friends for four years, nothing romantic. It super upset me when I learned about her murder, before the news broke around 3:00 p.m. on Saturday and raced across all media genre: TV, internet, radio, and lastly, the printed word. First I heard of it, was from the NYPD. They requested I come in for an interview Sunday, because Vi phoned me an hour or so before her murder. Then about five minutes after I had finished with them, Vi’s housekeeper, Amy, at 2:24 p.m., sent me a text to let me know about the tragedy.

After I got off the phone with the NYPD, I input into my cell’s notes app my conversation with Vi to the best of my recollection. I had been away for a funeral. I returned immediately to New York. Once home, I downloaded my notes to my laptop and printed out a hard copy. I handed it to Lieutenant Paton shortly before the interview ended.

I thought about the interview some more. Lieutenant Donna Paton either played good cop, or she was genuinely nice. A woman about forty, with wiry, blond-yellowish hair; she wore a pale-green-blue pantsuit. I liked her style of questioning.

I was very cooperative with Detective Pedro Ramirez and Lieutenant Donna Paton.

Vi was worth an estimated $1.5 billion.

So, how does a guy from a lower middle-class family, find himself mixed up with a murdered billionaire heiress?

II

I am a New Yorker, in the sense I come from Tiryns in Upstate New York. It’s a city of 150,000 snuggled on the west bank of the Hudson River in the hinterland of Albany, our state capital. Thanks to NAFTA, our manufacturing base had been windswept to a ghost town of padlocked decayed factories, surrounded by rattling rusted chain-link fences. The hum of equipment, the screech of shift whistles, and the torrent of laborers who flooded our industrial core, all gone! Only silence now and a trickle of security guards, who patrolled the barren wasteland, lingered. Weeds sprouted through the cracks in the crumbling asphalt of the empty parking lots. The swath of the industrial blight failed to spot some wisps of industry; it missed the Summit Box Factory, where my father worked bringing home a paycheck with benefits.

I was the youngest of three and an ugly duckling. My long untamed pitch-black hair was sometimes bowl shaped. I wore glasses since the age of four and wore braces in grades 6 and 7. I had an extremely mild case of acne during a never-ending puberty. My physique has always been thin. Thus my appearance dictated my character development. I looked like a nerdy, brainy kid. People expected me to be a nerdy, brainy kid, and I became a nerdy, brainy kid. Such a disappointment to my Pops, a second-string high school athlete who had unfulfilled dreams he wanted to vicariously live through me. Clumsy and awkward, I lacked the coordination to handle a hockey stick, use a baseball bat, and throw or catch a football. However, surprisingly, I learned to skate.

I have two older sisters. Mia is two years older. She’s the athlete. Through her my father lived out his dreams. Carla is four years older. She’s the princess. Carla took ballroom dancing; she made me her practice partner, and I learned quite a few steps. On the whole, they both found me a burden.

Watch your little brother, was my mother’s mantra to them for as long as they could remember.

I became a chore they loathed; they were quick to grumble about me to me.

My dear mother wanted a son, the all-American boy. I was far from that. In fairness, she defended me when I failed to make whatever team Pops had me try out for; she reminded him, Look, Harv, at least he’s intelligent.

Because she convinced herself I was the next Einstein, she pressured the principal to have me skip third grade and be placed into fourth. She proudly touted her achievement, not my academics, to all her friends. She worked as a cashier at Coupon’s Grocery store and secured me summer employment there, during my high school years. My father’s aunt Gerdy lived close to us. She babysat and attended all family functions. I was very fond of her.

I am intelligent, not gifted and worked hard for every grade.

III

In elementary school I hung mostly with a classmate, Jimmy Tyler, who was awkward, with a freckled face and a voice like a bullfrog. Skipping a grade resulted in me being the smallest kid in the class and under tremendous stress to meet the great scholarly expectations thrust upon me.

The grade skip came to be one of my life’s tipping points, which cast the social ingredients that molded my character. I became withdrawn. More importantly, my drive to succeed was fueled by a fear of failure, not a passion for accomplishment. The fourth grade was the only time in my academic life, I scored less than a 90 percent average. I earned 89 percent.

Despite being in different grades, Jimmy and I stayed buddies until my high school freshman year. That year the industrial blight sent more jobs migrating to the warmer climes and cheaper labor markets of Mexico, permanently laying off Jimmy’s father. His family sold up and moved to Texas. We remained Facebook friends.

The traditional enemy of a nerdy, brainy kid is the bully. I have observed three major categories: mean girls, losers, and jock bullies. There’s also cyberbullying, but that type of bulling is trans category.

Was I cyberbullied? Yup. Someone set up a webpage to vote for the dorkiest kid at Aaron Burr High and listed my name as a candidate. For my own sanity, I never visited sites like those.

Was I the victim of mean girls? Yup. Not just the snickering, giggling and finger pointing with occasional jeers. It once got physical when in the fifth grade Lucy Villers walked up and slapped me in the face.

What did I do? I asked, fighting back the tears.

Nothing. I just wanted to show that I can beat up a wussy boy like you. She sneered as she giggled. Her friends laughed and they sauntered away.

Lucy made the mistake of bragging about it to Mia, and Mia, the athlete, in defense of family honor, made Lucy eat dirt.

Did losers bully me? Not so much. They shoved me, tripped me, laughed at me, made the occasional threats. As long as I avoided them, they left me alone. By the end of their sophomore year or the start of their junior year, most of them had entered the dropout ranks.

Jock bullies, now, there I had a problem. A jock bully is a loser with athletic talent buoyed by a sympathetic coach, and other enthusiasts, who want this player on the team no matter what. They persuade teachers to give this type of athlete undeserved passing grades. Chetwyn Goodall fit the description to a tee. Good old Chetwyn aspired to be captain of our football team, the Burr’s Bears.

Most jocks aren’t bullies. Unfortunately, some of them get caught up in a moblike mentality and do things they later wish they hadn’t. Not Chetwyn, he enjoyed smashing defenseless kids. Chetwyn had a little pack—Troy, Rob, Arnie, and Sal. Tess, Bonnie, and Vera were their groupie mean girls. Walt was the nicest of cool kids. At the end of junior year, he ran away from home. I never heard what became of him.

Sal scared me more than Chetwyn. His squinty eyes and snarly curled lips sent a chill down my spine. He and Chetwyn had no trouble bumping me against the lockers. Rumor had it, they played a game of who can bump the most nerds in a day. We nerds had our own little table near the back of the cafeteria.

In junior year chemistry class, nothing stunned me more than to have Chetwyn Goodall sit next to me. This course was way out of his academic league. What concerned me wasn’t the how; but the why, he weaseled his way into it. A hypothesis on that formed in my head.

Hey, where are you going? He noticed I had packed my books and started to move.

I figured you want one of your buddies to sit next to you, so I’ll go, I replied.

Nah, none of them are in this class. Stay put, I’m Chet. He had a toothy grin, much like a crocodile.

I was dumbstruck.

Strickland, is it? Ted, right? he said.

I nodded. If I wasn’t weak, I would have answered, You’re a jackass, you know my name.

I’ve seen you around school.

Yes, I cautiously replied. You kinda bumped me hard into the lockers. So much so, on some days, I came home badly bruised. I lied to my parents, telling them I had taken a tumble. I was clumsy, so it made sense to them.

He draped his arm over my shoulder as if we were old friends. Just horseplay, Ted, just horseplay. I’m all about school spirit. That’s me, Mr. School Spirit. School spirit is the team, our team, Ted, yours and mine, the Bears. The Bears will win all county and then possibly the state championship. These high school years are the best years of our lives!

My mood dropped; these couldn’t be the best years. It didn’t take a genius to know what road this conversation was traveling.

Yes, we’re doing spectacular. I sighed.

Glad you’re a supporter, Ted. That gets me right here. He made a fist and thumped his sternum once. I believe that everyone should pull their weight.

Here it comes, I thought, hypothesis proved.

I need you to support me. I’ll do what I can. There’ll be times as your lab partner I may not be able to do fifty-fifty, because I am out there giving it all for the team. The team needs you, Ted. You’re not helping me, Ted. You’re doing it for the team. The team, Ted! The team means school spirit.

This chemistry class was primarily assignment based. Assignments composed 60 percent of the final grade, leaving the exam the other 40 percent. In theory, you can pass the course and fail the exam. My hypothesis for Chet’s scientific interest and sitting next to me fell into place.

Sure, Chet, I said, for the team.

This arrangement actually suited me. My neurotic obsession to achieve a 90-plus mark would have alienated a different lab partner.

Both of us were happy with me doing all the work. Chet made sure to sign his name to our projects, and I checked that he spelled it correctly. At the end of term, we averaged 97 percent from assignments. This translated into 58.2 percent mark overall for the course. Chet was assured a passing grade. I provided him copies of my notes and highlighted the most relevant parts to help him study. Chet, to his credit on the final exam, scored 37.5 percent. Not a pass, but it gave him a 73.7 or 74 percent mark overall. Chet basked in and boasted of his triumph.

I’m the MVP of the chemistry class. He chuckled.

At the beginning of the following term, the real danger came when after school, Chet and his entourage swarmed me. I had stayed late to borrow books from the school library. I shut my locker. The hallways were empty.

Hey, Strickland, he said in a not too friendly voice.

Uh-oh, no longer Ted. This can’t be good, I thought. I became tense.

You know we worked great together last term. I need you to help me this term.

We didn’t share any classes. I was in advanced. He wasn’t.

Wow, I can’t let down the team, I replied, and I thought fast.

Chet’s eyes widened; his crocodile smile creased his face.

I want to help the team. I am not in any of your classes. It’s like this, a player can know the playbook, the rules of the game, but if he ignores or doesn’t know the coach’s strategy, he is useless to the team. I won’t know what the teachers are emphasizing unless I am in class with you. I would be useless to you, and thereby, I’d be useless to the team and letting down the team. It’s all about helping the team and keeping up the school spirit like you said.

Chet’s smile faded into a frown. Oops, he wasn’t buying it. His fists clenched, turning his knuckles white. He loomed over me and grimaced.

There were second-string jocks, wannabe jocks and other hangers-on who craved the approval of the in crowd; one of them would clamor to help him. I resigned myself to a beating, better than being his patsy. My dread, in doing his work; I wouldn’t keep pace with my own and my 90-plus average would be no more. That was my identity, and I couldn’t lose my identity. Sweat dripped from my armpits. My throat swelled as my heart raced. I was about to enter the world of pain.

The silence snapped, when of all people snarly face Sal blurted, He’s right Chet. It’s like Coach says. ‘If you’re not listening to my strategy; you’re failing the team. If you fail the team, I don’t want you.’

Chet’s tiny mind slowly digested the added analysis. His posture gradually slackened. He walked by me, saying, Keep thinking of the team, Strickland. His entourage dutifully followed, leaving me alone.

My knees buckled. My back slid down the side of the locker, until I sat on the floor. I wrapped my arms around my legs, and my head drooped as my body trembled. My stomach turned. I gulped deep breaths and swallowed. It took me close to an hour before I regained my composure.

From that day forward, Chet never bothered me. In his senior year, his dream of being team captain and going to the state championship was realized. The Bears made it to the quarter finals.

One of the extracurricular clubs I joined was the chess club. We made it once to the state tournament but didn’t win. I also signed up for the theater club. I did backstage stuff and understudied small parts and twice performed. I liked pretending to be someone I wasn’t.

Prior to leaving Tiryns, Pops insisted I get my driver’s license.

IV

In the late summer of 2011, at the ripe age of seventeen, I arrived in New York City to begin my studies in finance at NYU. My grades earned me a scholarship that thankfully ate up the lion’s share of my tuition and expenses. After four years on the dean’s list, I came away with a diploma and a $16,000 student loan debt.

My enrollment year, I packed my things. Mom and Pops drove me to New York City. I lived off campus, in an apartment for students I had secured online and shared with three others. We were cramped; we each had a postage stamp-size bedroom, more of a kitchenette than a kitchen, a bathroom and an open hallway that doubled as a living room. My roommates were awesome, academically driven and not athletic. Marcus’s Southern twang shouted his South Carolina lineage. Deepak came from Delhi, India. Amit, also of Indian heritage, hailed from Brampton, a city on the outskirts of Toronto.

New York City is not the concrete jungle or gray urban canyons it’s sometimes portrayed. I can describe New York City in three words: freedom, diversity, and acceptance. I threw myself into my studies; I was here to stay.

My first trips back to Tiryns, for Thanksgiving and later Christmas, glaringly pointed out that there, I fit in like a square peg in a round hole. I didn’t belong. I needed a summer job in New York to avoid a trek home and bag groceries from May until August. Summer research positions at the university were available. If offered, I’d accept, but I craved something different. In February 2012, I joined a looking-for-work program offered by NYU’s Wasserman Center. I began to apply for summer employment online.

The art deco opulence of the lobby, in the Naysmyth Global Financial building, astounded me. My shoes clacked on the two-toned gray marble diamond-shaped tiled floor. My eyes were awed by the walls covered in rich orange granite stretching two stories up to a carved oak coffered ceiling, where four massive wrought iron lanterns hung down, augmenting the sunlight streaming through four oversize recessed windows. I signed in at security and pushed the Up button. I stared at an arrow-like arm on a bronze lunette as it indicated the movement of the elevator. When the elevator doors’ lotus fan design parted in the center, I stepped in and pressed number 3. It was early April 2012, and I was there to be interviewed for a summer position. The job had something to do with file modernization. It paid fifteen dollars hourly.

Leaving the elevator, I entered a world of bright fluorescent lights, a maze of modular workstations, walls lined with offices and meeting rooms, monitors, and the tapping of keyboards. There was nothing decorative here; it was all utilitarian and twenty-first century. The receptionist directed me to continue on straight, and halfway down, turn left. It was the third door on my right.

I thanked her and started to make my way to the interview room. At the other end of the hallway, next to a photocopier, a man and two women were laughing. I gazed in their direction as I rounded the corner. Bam! I plowed into a bull of a man. My glasses were partially knocked from my nose, so I straightened them. My face tingled crimson when I noticed the man’s cup of coffee had splashed all over his pressed white shirt.

Whoa! he said as he jumped back to escape further splatter.

I am so sorry, I stammered. My heart thumped rapidly. It’s my fault, all my fault. I wasn’t watching where I was going. I haven’t got any money on me now, but give me your name, and I’ll come back and pay for the dry cleaning. I mean if, ahhh…the shirt isn’t too expensive, I can replace it…I should have asked, are you all right? You’re not scalded, please don’t sue me…I don’t have any money. Mindlessly, I babbled.

Who are you?

I’m…I’m nobody. I’m here for an interview.

He had a full head of auburn hair. His trimmed beard was a lighter shade, reddish to orange. His dark-blue eyes looked down at me. You have to be somebody. What’s your name?

T-Ted, that’s short for Tedmund, Tedmund Strickland. I do have a middle name. Do you need my middle name?

No, he sighed, I don’t need your middle name. You see the chair outside that door. He pointed with his right index and middle finger. Go sit there, you’ll be called for your interview.

I was mortified. Coffee had spilled onto the floor. I should clean this mess up. Do you know where the paper towels are? Of course you do. You work here. What am I saying? I rambled on.

Mr. Strickland, go and sit down, please. He stretched out the word please.

I traipsed after him. Let me help. Am I being sued?

He turned toward me, a little exasperated. He inhaled, his eyebrows raised, and then he exhaled as he spoke, No, you’re not being sued. Accidents happen. Now go, thank you.

I obeyed. I sat down, saying over and over in my mind, Compose yourself, Ted. Compose yourself, Ted. I didn’t see any other applicants, so I suspected the interviews were staggered.

Mrs. Johnson, a black woman who wore red-framed glasses and large hoops that dangled from her earlobes, led me into a small austere interview room. She sat behind a table with an empty chair beside her. I sat on the opposite side. She introduced herself as the manager of Financial Research and Development. I am just waiting for Mr. Reilly. Then we’ll begin. She smiled.

The tweed jacket Mr. Reilly wore did little to conceal the brown stain on his white shirt.

Cole, what happened? Mrs. Johnson asked.

I spilled some coffee, he replied.

They made small talk. My head hung low. This can’t be happening, I thought.

Ahem, politely coughed Mrs. Johnson. I looked up. She went on, Mr. Strickland, we’ll begin. Your answers will be graded with a point system. Do your best to give examples. This is Mr. Reilly, the supervisor who will oversee the summer positions. There are two positions available.

Mr. Reilly, I said, almost defeated.

Mr. Strickland and I bumped into each other, he said to Mrs. Johnson. Then he turned to me and asked, May I call you Ted?

I nodded.

Ted, in an interview you can’t nod. You have to speak. Do you understand?

Yes, sir, I swallowed.

Now, Ted, deep breath, and tell me about yourself. He shot me a smile, a broad smile that lit up his face and slightly boosted my crestfallen hopes. Instantly, I liked him, but I knew I was toast. He helped me along by asking clarifying questions when he felt my initial answers fell short. Mrs. Johnson didn’t say anything and jotted down notes. When I left, I shook both their hands.

Ted, do you want to know when we’ll be in touch? he asked.

Sure, I answered, and I thought, What’s the point?

Early next week.

I tripped over my own feet on the way out; so much for a first impression.

All right, so I’d accept a research position at the university.

In my inbox, on Wednesday of the following week, I received an e-mail with an offer of summer employment from Coleman P. Reilly—Research and Development Supervisor of Naysmyth Global Financial.

My jaw dropped!

V

I am Vi. She grinned. I gazed at my coworker for the first time. She wasn’t so much pretty as pleasant looking, her mouth wide and her cheeks plump; this gave her face a cheery expression. She wore her brown hair parted in the center and cut just above her shoulders.

I am Ted, Ted Strickland, I said and extended my hand to shake hers.

After I completed the necessary forms at Human Resources, Mr. Reilly, who asked me to call him Cole, escorted me to a lower-level file room where neatly stacked boxes packed the shelves. The documents contained needed to be scanned, categorized and input to their in-house system. There were two workstations set up. Vi was already seated. I sat next to her.

Cole stayed with us for two hours; he demonstrated and explained what had to be done.

I’ll leave you guys to it. Remember to take your lunches and breaks. The first couple of days I don’t expect you to make quota, but as time goes on, you should pick up speed. If you have any questions, I am at extension 312. I will be down periodically to see how you’re doing. All right, welcome to Naysmyth Global Financial.

When he left, Vi stood up and walked over to get a box. I noticed she wasn’t tall, maybe five feet, five inches. I’d say a little more than average weight. I wouldn’t call her exactly fat, just maybe a little too curvy. She slowly began to initiate conversation.

Is Ted short for something? she asked.

Yes, I replied. See if you can guess.

Ah, Edward, Theodore, what about Edmund…?

You’re getting close.

No…oh, I know, she said. Thaddeus.

Way off. I then told her, Tedmund, my parent saw the name on a tombstone in New England when they were on a trip, and they liked it, and I got it.

Your turn, what’s Vi short for? she asked.

Gosh, that’s tough, I replied. "Ahh, Viviane? Hmmm, Vira with an i, no? Violin?"

She laughed. Yes, my parents named me after a musical instrument. I was lucky I wasn’t called Tuba. My first name is Violet. I was named after my mother. My mother actually went by her middle name, Beverly. Violet’s a so-so name, but my second name is even worse. It’s Eugenia.

Mine is Edgar. It’s all right.

Her last name she said was Norwood.

During those few exchanged phrases, my pulse fluttered and my palms perspired. I felt an instant connection to her. I cannot tell you what we talked about, but we talked about everything and nothing all summer. We took our lunches together, explored different eateries and went on walks during our breaks. My hair, slightly longer than hers, made her wonder if I might be a hipster. Not a hipster, I told her. She thought my circle wire-frame glasses were so retro. When she fell behind in her work, I got her caught up. She commented that I said the oddest, funniest things. We laughed a lot. My questions on her personal life, she dodged. She mentioned briefly, her mother’s death and kept tight lipped on what type of business her father ran. At Dartmouth, she majored in economics. Too introverted to ask her out, I hoped she’d ask me. She didn’t.

I must tell you a secret, Ted, she said in late August. Our work term was ending. Both of us were returning to school.

Please tell me you love me, I hoped. I was madly in love with her. I really was! She never gave me not so much as a hint that I was anything more than a friend.

My last name isn’t Norwood. It’s Naysmyth.

My eyes squinted in confusion. She continued, My father is Hoyt Naysmyth, the president of the company. I know some people know. I didn’t want people to treat me differently.

Wow, I gasped. That means you’re an heiress.

Ted, you say the silliest things. Yes, I guess I am.

We both laughed.

VI

Cole’s clean white shirt dripped with coffee. This was the second time I bumped into him. It could happen to anyone. We collided when he entered the lower-level file room as I was leaving. He brought me a coffee, not that I got a chance to taste it. This time, I knew where the paper towels were. Vi had left a week earlier for Dartmouth. We friended each other on Facebook, where she used the surname Norwood.

I don’t know why I am offering you this. Maybe I want you to buy me a new shirt, Cole remarked. I had just finished cleaning everything up.

Cole, I will pay for a new one, I am sorry. I was penitent.

Never mind, you don’t have to. Just be careful in the future. He sat down on Vi’s chair, and I sat down on mine. Then he shot me his Cole smile, the smile that lit up his face. It gave me a sense of security. "I have a proposition for you. There is a part-time job here on weekends. It’s only for six hours. It pays $13.50 an hour. All you have to do, is load the postage machine with unprocessed outgoing mail. It will seal and stamp it and record the amount. If the job has an adverse effect on your studies and you have to quit, please let me know as soon as