1 The Question of the Missing Head by E. J. Copperman Read Free Book Online Page B

prepared turkey sandwiches, one plain, the way I prefer, and others with choices of condiments), I explained the questions I was researching today—the one about the chances of hitting a ball out of Yankee Stadium, and the one about the missing head. Mother appeared to find the one about Ms. Masters-Powell’s head more interesting.
    “Why aren’t you looking into who killed that poor woman?” she asked me when I had completed the tale. I noticed Ms. Washburn looking away, examining my painting of John Lennon that Mother had hung on the far wall. I assumed she was doing so merely to avoid the issue Mother was raising.
    “I was not asked a question,” I told her. “My business is to answer questions.” I was noticing that Ms. Washburn preferred mustard to mayonnaise on her sandwich, and I considered what that might have meant in relation to her overall character. I decided she was less bland than most people.
    “Your business,” Mother said deliberately, “is to help when you can help. This is an area where you can help.”
    “I don’t see how,” I answered. “The police are competent. They haven’t asked me to assist them. I have questions I have not yet answered. It doesn’t make sense for me to abandon paying clients to help an organization that has not requested my assistance.”
    Mother stood up and began to clear plates from the table. Normally that is a signal that I should do the same, so I stood. But Mother shook her head and gestured toward Ms. Washburn. “We have company,” she said. “It’s rude to leave her alone.”
    But Ms. Washburn had already begun to help clear. “No, it’s rude for the guest to sit idly by while everyone else works on her behalf,” she said.
    Mother started to protest, but by that time Ms. Washburn was walking into the kitchen carrying plates. And the silent interchange between the two women was more than I could interpret, so I chose to pay no attention. I brought in a small bowl that had held chopped onions, but I avoided the one containing mayonnaise. There are limits to my tolerance, and Mother understands that.
    When I walked into the kitchen, I could hear Mother saying, “… thirteen years ago, so Samuel was sixteen years old. It was the first year—” She stopped speaking when she looked at Ms. Washburn’s face, which must have indicated that I was in the room. Mother looked over to see me there, smiled, and looked back at Ms. Washburn. “Not to worry, dear,” she said. “Samuel knows the story.”
    “Yes,” I agreed. “I was diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome the first year it was listed in the DSM IV. Do you know what that is?”
    Ms. Washburn nodded. “The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders,” she said, then put her hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry.”
    I didn’t see a reason for her to be sorry, and told her so. “That is what the publication is called,” I said. “I believe Asperger’s Syndrome is not a mental disorder, but that is the way the medical profession chooses to classify it.”
    Ms. Washburn nodded. Mother chuckled. “You left the mayonnaise out there, didn’t you, Samuel?” she asked, then walked to the door without waiting for my answer. She left the room through the kitchen door, which swings open and closed, like those in many restaurants, including the one that was once linked to the kitchen of San Remo’s, now my back room at Questions Answered.
    I looked at Ms. Washburn and tried to gauge her mood, based on what I’ve learned about facial expressions and body language. Since I had only known her a few hours, the task was made more challenging, but purer. She stood facing away from the sink, watching Mother leave the kitchen, and then she turned toward me. Her hands were crossed in front of her, arms down, and her face turned upward slightly when she realized I was looking at her.
    “You’re nervous,” I said after a moment. “Why are you nervous? Did I do something unusual?” Sometimes, it