inspiration + perspiration = invention :: T. Edison ::
It started when her favorite scarf turned back up. Clara first missed it the night of the Science Department's convocation; she'd had to make do with an ugly old locket inherited from some relative of her Mom's. Two weeks later, as she put away her dry cleaning, she found it crisp and neat on a hanger behind her sweaters.
Next to disappear and return was her letter opener. One day she couldn't find it; about a week later, it greeted her as she opened her office door, cleaner than it had been in years.
But she really took notice when a colleague shyly asked if some of the undergrad lab aides might be stealing substances from supplies. Though it was a possibility given the street value of the missing chemicals, all the potential suspects were upperclassmen, most of whom she'd worked with since their first biology class. Clara decided to investigate before casting a shadow on any of their records.
It soon became clear that anyone trying to smuggle these chemicals out would have to get a professor involved: security was too tight for casual looting. That made her quandary even harder, since she might need to accuse a fellow faculty member. Before she could, though, everything in the lab was restocked to full capacity, and no new thefts followed in the weeks after.
Still, it had happened, and Clara puzzled over it one day in her office between classes. None of the chemicals that had gone missing were good for a high or even bomb making. In fact, she only recognized one as having any use whatsoever outside of a laboratory setting. Her great aunt used to coat her weeds with bromide.
The memory of Great Aunt Sophie working in her garden pushed the image of her locket up to Clara's consciousness, and with it the prodigal scarf. She looked down at the lost and found letter opener. Clean, so very clean when she found it. Better than new. Like her scarf. Like the chemicals.
Once was an accident, twice a fluke, but three times? What did it mean: advance Alzheimer's? Mini strokes? A dissociative disorder? She left the college early, unnerved, but decided over a quick dinner of Chinese take out that it was all a coincidence, or at most a sign she wasn't getting enough sleep and nutrition. She set her alarm differently and made a new grocery list for the next month to include more whole grains and vegetables.
The next morning she awoke refreshed and ready to tackle the day. For the next week she stuck to a stricter diet, walked every day at lunch, and went to bed a whole hour earlier. Feeling victorious, Clara decided to treat herself to a nice dinner Saturday night, followed by ice cream and a Netflix marathon on the couch. She startled awake in the wee hours of the morning, bleary and confused, squinting at the blank screen in front of her, a muffled sound demanding her attention.
Her phone buzzed again, loud and insistent, and she reached to swat the pest off. It wasn't nearby; she must have knocked it down in her sleep. It tugged her forward, groggy, on the floor, crawling around in the dark for her quarry.
She found it at last, in her bedroom, buried under one of her pillows. Odd. She swiped the alarm off and checked: it was set to go off every night at 1:00 am. Also odd. But the worst part was when she returned to the living room and found her phone on the coffee table. Why did she have a different phone under her pillow? Surely she'd remember any guests? The panic of a week ago set in. How could one night of limited indulgence birth such a setback?
The phone unlocked at her fingers, and she swiped through trying to discover who it belonged to. Lots of unknown contacts, weird security apps, no games, some news feeds, and an encrypted email that didn't respond to any easy passwords.
The calendar stopped her cold. It was identical to hers: class schedules, faculty meetings, even her dry cleaning. But there were unknown appointments marked in red. The dates leapt out at her: the days her scarf disappeared and returned, and her letter opener, and the chemicals, all marked with big clickable "Xs." Fascinated, she thumbed the links.
A news article from the local station came up on the browser. A young coed had been found strangled on her way back to the dorms during the first days of the semester. The next link was about a man stabbed to death in the apartment complex across from hers, just a day before she discovered her letter opener back in the office. The last one told of an outbreak of poisoning at a local chop shop. She recognized the name for some reason: wait, it was the one next door to the Lucky Bamboo, her favorite Chinese place.
The one she visited the night of her big scare.
There had to be a logical explanation. Maybe she really did have dementia. Or perhaps one of her students had pulled a prank, slipped a phone in her bag as she left one day.
And yet, Occam's razor demanded the simplest solution: somehow, some way, she was involved in all of these crimes.
Suddenly a text message flared across the screen:
NEW ASSIGNMENT. COPY?