through email. And anyone with half a brain looking at even one of Michael’s most innocent emails would have picked up on his obsession with sex and sensuality. It just came off him like a pheromone.
I called Michael, just to be sure he hadn’t sent me anything through the post.
Michael was amused, naturally. “Nope. Not me. Why, did you get a naked picture of me?”
It really was tiring; how did men keep so constantly engaged by sex? I mean, it’s fun, but I’m not thinking about it twenty-four-seven. It had its place, but it seemed Michael had more places than me. “I’m trying to find out how someone would know we’ve been in contact.”
“And know enough to send tawdry and yet infinitely compelling pictures to me?” he said. “That is disquieting. No, I haven’t sent you anything in the mail.”
“So it’s email. Someone must be getting into my email.”
“You’ve got firewalls and software and shit, though, right?”
“Of course I do.” I do now, anyway. “It could also be someone tampering with my machine at work.”
“Good thing whoever it is didn’t slash your credit record,” Michael said.
“Right. Got that covered.” However stupid I’d been about firewalls, I was very careful about my credit and had it protected, checked, several times a year. And Brian had double-checked as soon as people started getting presents that I didn’t send; I figured my credit report was next. “Thanks Michael.”
“Whatever, Auntie. Say, did you want to hear about what my friend the graphologist had to say about the letter?”
“You got it already?”
“Sure. The most interesting thing that happens to me all week, you think I’m going to sit on it?”
I let the potential double entendre slide. “What did she say?”
He paused dramatically. “It’s a fake.”
“Yeah? I could have told you that.”
“No, you don’t understand. Someone was trying to imitate your handwriting, as well as cover up their own.”
“Right. That makes sense.”
“But why not just type it? Add a signature? Wouldn’t that make more sense?”
“Only if you think I’d type mash notes.”
“Dear God in heaven. ‘Mash notes?’” Michael sighed, disappointed in me again. “What century is that from?”
“I’m sorry, Michael. I haven’t got your experience with pornographic literature. Or love notes, for that matter.” Ouch, Emma, that might have been a little much. “I mean, well, what do you call it?”
“A solicitation? Invitation? Exhortation? Invocation? Sure as hell not a mash note.”
“Whatever.”
Michael was curious now. “So. Would you? Type them?”
“I’m not in the habit of—no.” I sighed. “Short answer, no. Did she give you anything else?”
“Just that it was a good job, for an imperfect forgery. While it wasn’t an exact copy of your handwriting, there was enough attention to detail to get things like the spacing and drops correct. There was one thing, however, that reminded her of your Tony’s handwriting.”
“What was that?”
“The distance from the margins. That seemed to be very like the sample you sent me. It is, however, significantly less than conclusive as to identity. But whoever it is, is strange about the past. Connected and disconnected all at once.”
I couldn’t help asking: I wondered what my writing said about me. “And mine?”
He didn’t answer right away. “How old is the sample you sent?”
“Pretty recent. Earlier this summer, I think.”
“You’re much more interested in the future, right now. Looking to make a change, maybe? But you’re agitated, something’s up, is what she said.”
“That’s a surprise?” It sounded like nonsense to me. “I couldn’t tell you.”
“Thanks for trying. And you’ll send those right back to me? I don’t know which is safer. Send it to my house I guess. Request a signature, okay?”
“Okeydoke. Just as soon as Trish the Ink gets the outline of my tattoo done.”
The doorbell chimed the next morning. Artie, I thought. I went downstairs with an odd mixture of triumph, dread, and reluctance: No one likes confrontation.
After I let him in, he glanced hopefully at the coffeepot. Thinking that I’d catch more flies with coffee than vinegar, I’d made a batch and now invited him to sit. Artie looked chuffed. Finally, I was starting to appreciate the way he deserved to be treated. I was only sorry I didn’t think to get donuts for him.
“So. Artie,” I started, after he’d settled in. “There have been some strange goings-on around here.”
He stopped in mid-slurp. “Oh yeah? What kinda strange?”
“Someone’s been into my mail. You haven’t noticed anyone lurking around here, or down by the mailbox, have you?”
“Oh, no. No.”
The answer came a little too fast for me. “See, I think