In the Nib of Time Page 2

  I shook his shoulder again. He slumped over to the side on his arm. He was holding one of his favorite brands of fountain pens limply in his right hand. He had a tiny cut in the lid just above his right eye and below his bushy gray eyebrow. There was a small spattering of blood on the expensive cream-colored vellum he had been writing on. He didn't respond. His chest wasn't moving. He was warm, but—

  Panic overtook me and made me trembly. My hands shook uncontrollably. I went cold. My thoughts raced and tripped and stumbled over each other in my rush to make sense of the scene before me. Stroke? Heart attack? Nine-one-one. Nine-one-one!

  I grabbed his thin wrist and frantically felt for a pulse. Nothing. I tried his neck. Still nothing. Tears filled my eyes.

  Oh, Ralph. No.

  Chapter Two

  Only eleven master penmen left now.

  A cloud passed over the sun outside the window, casting a fleeting shadow over the room through the gossamer curtains Ralph kept to filter and diffuse the light.

  Time flies over us, but leaves its shadow behind.

  So many quotes I letter get stuck in my subconscious. They pop up out of nowhere at the oddest times. I'd lettered that quote by Nathaniel Hawthorne dozens of times. I felt the shadow now and shivered. Time had run out for my dear friend. I swallowed a lump in my throat.

  I was certainly no doctor, and no expert on death, but it was obvious Ralph was gone and beyond any help that I, or anyone else, could give him. It was also clear he hadn't been gone long. He'd just watered his hanging baskets. They were still dripping when I'd come in.

  I beat myself up. In the nib of time, indeed. If I'd arrived just a few minutes earlier, if I hadn't stopped for Russian pretzels, maybe I could have helped him. Called 911 in time. Performed CPR.

  I collapsed into a chair across from Ralph and studied my old friend. Now that he was gone, he looked thin and frail. And gray, even the pallor of his skin. His curly hair was nearly white, and wispier and thinner on top than I'd noticed before. But when did I see the top of his head, really?

  He'd obviously been in a work frenzy for a few days, at least—his beard was scraggly and needed trimming, and his hair was long, curling over his ears. He needed a haircut. When he was deep into a project, Ralph ignored his physical needs and personal maintenance and worked day and night. Had he worked himself to death? Driven his poor, old heart into fatigue and failure?

  He was wearing shorts, a T-shirt and hoody, and slippers—his usual summer attire here. He was usually cold, even on warmer days, but you never got him out of his shorts.

  What did I do next? Call the police, I supposed. Which meant Ridge. Although I didn't suspect foul play, Ralph's death was unexpected. As I'd learned from Ridge, calling 911 was the procedure. The medical examiner's office would have to send an ME out to certify Ralph's death. But this wasn't an emergency. What was the rush now?

  I suppressed a shudder. The last time I'd called in a body, things hadn't gone well. I'd become a suspect in a murder investigation. True, in that case, Earleen Culp, the victim, had obviously been murdered. On my front porch, at that. Ralph had apparently passed quietly from old age. It was just a shame he'd gotten a gash on his eye as he fell, ruining the very last piece of work he'd ever start. A masterpiece in the making.

  Maybe I should have called the police right away, but I wanted a few minutes alone with my friend first. I studied his face, trying to memorize it. But it really wasn't Ralph. The light of life had left his always friendly, twinkling eyes. And it was hard to tell whether his last expression was peaceful or surprised.

  I needed a minute to compose myself. I sat in his comfortable studio office, smelling the cozy, reassuring scent of a variety of inks and paper. His office was as tidy and organized as everything about him. The walls of his office were covered with samples of his work and art. Beautiful penned pieces that only a master could do.

  I wondered who would inherit them all now? Ralph had been a widower for twenty years. As far as I knew, he had no children. He'd married late in life, past fifty. His late wife had had children. But they were grown and on their own by the time Ralph married her. They hadn't been particularly interested in keeping up with Ralph after she passed. In their eyes, he wasn't their dad. And as an old man, he was just another burden.

  Ralph had an older sister, as I recalled. And many friends in the Sun Belt. But I had no idea how to reach any of them. Who would I even notify of his death? He had many friends in the lettering and art worlds. We, the lettering community, of course, would mourn him terribly.

  I stood and went to look over his shoulder at what he'd been working on. The drops of blood had stained the paper, covering the last few words he'd penned. The piece was ruined now. And unfinished, of course. It was a beautiful piece of calligraphy—a love poem. I didn't recognize it.

  A piece for the billionaire's wedding? Something to go in the wedding program, maybe? Or a gift for the bride? A poem commissioned from a famous poet to be put to paper by a master of the pen? As far as I knew, Brandon Watson's wedding was Ralph's top-priority project right now.

  One could only admire Ralph's work. The beautiful downstrokes and flourishes. The artistry that a digital program could never replicate. His work looked perfect to the uninitiated. But as Ralph liked to say, even his work had imperfections. Imperfections that made it unique, special, delightfully flawed and appealing to the human eye. Tiny flaws that software, even when it was programmed to mimic, couldn't manufacture with enough authenticity to fool a real person. As Ralph used to lament—more flaws and imperfections the older he got. All of that aside, even though working with arthritis had become painful and slow, his work was still impressive.

  I frowned. Something was off about the scene in front of me.

  I took another look at the pen Ralph was holding. It was his favorite brand, true. And brand new, from the looks of it. But it wasn't his favorite pen, or even one of his favorites, for working on a project.

  Ralph worked on important pieces with one of the pens he'd lathed himself as a young man. They were beautiful pieces in and of themselves—sleek and aerodynamic in form. Ralph had small, delicate hands for a man. Frustrated with trying to find a pen that fit his hand perfectly, and had the right balance and hand feel, he'd made his own. He'd also sold them, probably hundreds over the years, to collectors. He had only a few left now. He'd used the others so often that most of them had worn out and broken.

  Why would he use this brand-new, untried pen on such important work? If something had happened to his own pens—he'd misplaced them or whatever—he'd at least use a pen he'd broken in. An untried pen for such an important, pricey piece? When one mistake would ruin the piece and hours upon hours of work? No.

  Fountain pens are fine instruments to artists like Ralph, just like a Stradivarius is to a top violinist. You don't create a masterpiece with an untried tool.

  Ralph was also a fountain pen collector. He owned many fine, expensive, and exclusive pens. Some were just for show and the pleasure of owning, like pieces of jewelry. Others were workhorses that had been broken in. He used them every day.

  If something had happened to the last of his favorite handmade pens, I was sure he would have mentioned the tragedy to me. The loss would have been extremely upsetting to him, the last of his youth gone. I also knew for a fact that he had many pens he'd broken in that he often used. If his favorite was out of commission, he would have most likely switched to his second-in-line. But to break in a new pen? It would have to be some pen.

  My fingers itched. I rubbed them together and limbered them up like a locksmith ready to take a try at the tumblers of a safe. Of course, Ralph and I would have different tastes in pens because of the shape of our hands. But I had held Ralph's favorite before, and felt honored by the privilege. I knew what he liked and was dying to see what was so special about this new pen. Because maybe I'd have to get myself one.

  And then, because I couldn't help myself, and the medical examiner would j
ust take the pen away anyway, I gently removed it from Ralph's dead fingers. I hefted it, sat across the table from him, and wrote on a piece of scratch paper. No. This pen didn't have the balance he loved. It didn't even have the balance I loved.

  I was perplexed. And because I was perplexed, I pulled my phone out and snapped as many pictures of the scene as I could. Just in case. Because something was off. I couldn't put my finger on it, but I could feel it.

  I looked around Ralph's studio. He kept his expensive pens locked in a safe that was bolted to the floor. And his most prized pens were locked in a bank vault. But he kept some very nice pens—pens that only cost hundreds or thousands, not tens of thousands or hundreds of thousands—in a beautiful inlaid wooden fountain pen display case on his shelf. I had admired it many times and pretty much knew the pens he kept in it.

  I went to the shelf and took a look. Both Lamys were there. I counted three Viscontis. Four Pilots. Wait—four? He usually kept five. I opened the pen case and looked more closely. Yes, definitely, one of the Pilots was missing. It was gold-nibbed, true. But it was a hundred-and-sixty- to hundred-and-eighty-dollar pen. Which wasn't a lot in the collectible pen world. And there was no sight of the last two of his handmade pens, either.

  I did a quick search of the studio, but none of them turned up. What could Ralph have done with them? I snapped a picture of the pen display. Who was I kidding? I was putting off the inevitable. Stalling. I didn't want to let Ralph go.

  I walked back to Ralph and put my hand on his shoulder. "Rest in peace, my friend."

  I blinked back a tear and called Ridge. Ridge would know the protocol. He answered on the first ring.

  "Ralph's dead." I sniffed. Shock was wearing off. "I'm at his house now. I came to deliver his nibs and found him. What do I do now?"

  "Hang tight, James. I'll call the medical examiner's office and be right there."

  I sat in silence with Ralph, remembering him, until Ridge arrived and let himself in. "James?"

  "I'm in here! In Ralph's studio."

  I was one of two people in the entire world who could ever tell Ridge and Rut apart—me and their mom. Not even their dad was any good at it. Even still, there were times, even after all these years since Rut died, when Ridge walked into a room and I saw Rut—young and hot and eager—and my heart leaped. For a moment, it would be as if Rut had come back to life and he was mine again. And life would be good and whole, and full of dreams. Over the years, those moments had become less and less frequent and begun to pass more and more quickly. Now my heart leaped because Ridge was here. And it was due to more than the best-friend factor.

  Ridge walking in the door was one of those moments—I saw Ridge, and only Ridge. I jumped to my feet and threw myself into his arms, grateful for the comfort of his touch as he embraced me. I didn't care that he was chief of police. He was Ridge. And he was what I needed.

  Ridge stroked my hair and placed a kiss on the top of my head. "I'm so sorry, James."

  I nodded. "It's the shock. I just saw him a few days ago. He was happy and excited about his work. He looked fine. Robust, even. He told me he was feeling good."

  "An ME will be here in a few minutes." Ridge gave me a big squeeze. "You want to wait in the living room while I take a look here?"

  "No. I'd rather stay," I said. "I've been here this long." I pulled out of Ridge's embrace. He had work to do. I looked up at him. There were bags beneath his eyes. "You look beat."

  "Summer. The days get hot and people go crazy. There were five separate disturbances at the glamping park last night. It kept my officers and me busy. I'm running on empty."

  The glamping park wasn't far from Ralph's cabin.

  "Sorry to call you back into the area," I said.

  Ridge shrugged. He noticed the cup carrier sitting where I'd left it. "That wouldn't happen to be coffee?"

  "From the bakery," I said, apologetically. "And Russian pretzels. I brought them for Ralph and me. Help yourself. The coffee should still be semi-warm."

  Ridge didn't argue. He grabbed one of the cups and reached in the bag for a pretzel. "Thanks. I didn't get breakfast."

  "Well there you have it—the breakfast of champions," I said. "I'm amazed you can eat at a time like this."

  "You mean in front of Ralph's body?" He raised an eyebrow. "A time like this is mild compared to what I see on the job all the time."

  He made a good point.

  "What are you doing slumming it with bakery coffee?"

  "Ralph loves coffee, but he has an undiscriminating palate. And I was too busy and eager to get here with Ralph's nibs to risk a long chat with Angel."

  Ridge grinned. "Angel does like to talk." He walked over to Ralph's body.

  Ralph was particular about food and drink in his studio. He didn't like risking a spill on his work. Fortunately, Ridge had the same aversion to contaminating a crime scene. Even though this wasn't a crime scene, force of habit prevailed. Somehow Ridge managed not to drop crumbs.

  "Those nibs must really be something for you to race over here with them. Didn't you have a webinar with Hot Hugh this morning?" He raised one eyebrow and grinned. "I know how much you love flirting with him. It's not like you to give up your chance to needle him."

  "Ha. Flirting with him." I rolled my eyes, but Ridge was spot-on. I momentarily forgot my grief and grinned. "But I got Hugh good this morning. Really rattled him."

  Ridge smiled. "Good. Put him in his place." Ridge polished off the pretzel, dusted his hand on his slacks, and nodded toward Ralph. "Is this how you found him?"

  "No." I had to confess. "He was facedown, holding a pen. I thought he'd fallen asleep at his work. I shook his shoulder to wake him, and he toppled over like that." I winced.

  "Natural enough response," Ridge said. "You wouldn't expect him to be dead." He took a sip of coffee. "Why isn't he still holding the pen?"

  "I was curious." I pointed to where I'd set the pen. "It was odd. Ralph was using a new pen. He never uses a new pen on an important project. A new nib, yes. But not a new pen. I wanted to see what was so special about this one."

  "That sounds like you." Ridge set his cup down and squatted to get eye level with Ralph. "So what is so special about it?"

  "Nothing," I said. "Which is what makes it so odd. Absolutely nothing. It's just another fine-quality pen."

  "Huh." Ridge studied Ralph. "Did you see this cut on his eyelid?"

  "Yeah. He must have gashed it when he fell." I walked up and stood behind Ridge. "So what do you think? Heart attack? Stroke?"

  "We'll know more when the medical examiner gets here."

  I knew Ridge. Something about the scene was bothering him, too. But whatever was bothering him was niggling at him from a cop's intuition. I shivered.

  As if on cue, a car from KCMEO, the King County Medical Examiner's Office, pulled into the drive.

  Chapter Three

  Ridge greeted the ME at the front door. I waited with Ralph for them.

  I stood when they entered the room. The medical examiner was carrying an examination bag.

  Ridge introduced us. "Jamie, this is Jim Johnson from the medical examiner's office. We got lucky and got a good one." He winked at Jim. "Jim, this is a longtime friend of mine, Jamie Lang. She found the body. Ralph Coggins, the deceased, was a friend of hers."

  "Nice to meet you, Jamie." Jim gave me a reassuring smile. "I'll examine him. And issue a death certificate. If I don't find anything suspicious or feel the need for an autopsy, I'll release the body to the mortuary. Do you know if he'd made arrangements?"

  "No, sorry," I said.

  "I can recommend a mortuary." Jim smiled and took a step toward Ralph's body. "Let's see what we have here."

  I stepped aside to give him room to work.

  The first thing Jim noticed was Ralph's work. He whistled softly. "Whoa, this is a beautiful piece."

  I agreed. "Ralph was a master penman. World renowned for his calligraphy and pen work."

  "I can see why." Jim
set his bag down on Ralph's drafting table. He pulled a camera from his bag and snapped a few shots of the body.

  I cleared my throat. "I kind of moved the body when I tried to wake him. He was facedown when I got here. I thought he was sleeping." I explained what happened and how I'd found Ralph.

  "Not a problem." Jim felt for a pulse in Ralph's neck and performed a few more routine tests to make sure he was really gone. "He's definitely dead. I'll issue a death certificate." Jim pointed to the gash by Ralph's eye and glanced at me. "You said he was in good health last time you saw him?"

  I nodded.

  "He didn't seem concerned about any health issues?"

  "Not that I know of," I said.

  "He wasn't depressed?"

  "No. Not that I noticed," I said.

  "Do you know anything about this cut?" Jim asked. "How he got it?"

  "No." I shook my head. "I assumed he got it when he slumped forward onto the drafting table."

  Jim frowned and reached into his medical bag. He pulled out a magnifying glass. He leaned over Ralph and studied his wound with an intent expression. "Ridge, come take a look at this. See if you see what I think I see." He handed the magnifying glass to Ridge.

  Ridge studied Ralph's gash with a look of deep concentration. He leaned in closer. "That looks like a small splinter or piece of wood in there."

  Jim nodded. "That's what I see, too."

  Both men, and I, studied the desk. There wasn't anything that looked like it would splinter into Ralph's eye as he fell.

  That shadow passed over me again. I held out my hand for the magnifying glass. "May I?"

  Ridge handed it to me.

  I leaned in close and squinted. I saw it, too. I gasped.

  "What, James?" Ridge leaned in close to me. "It's all right. You see it. Do you have an idea what it is?"

  My mouth went dry. "From the color of it, it looks like the very tip of one of Ralph's favorite fountain pens. I know it sounds crazy, but…"