Eye Sleuth (21 page)

As Bob entered the exhibit hall, I blinked in surprise at the sight of the man coming out. What I could see of the man’s face under his Boston Red Socks cap, it looked uncannily like Matt Wahr. The man walked quickly to a waiting elevator and the doors slid shut before he turned around, so I didn’t get another glimpse of his face. I had to be mistaken. Wahr couldn’t possibly be in England. He’d never been scheduled to attend the conference and after the financial mess at SUNY, alleged or not, money was missing and he was suspect. Besides, why would he even want to be here? I’d totally forgotten to ask Ian Campbell, the super at 34 Gramercy, why Wahr had been at 34. No, surely not Wahr, not at the conference. But I deflated like a punctured balloon. Ugly memories of the trouble in New York surfaced. So what if someone looks like Wahr? A lot of men do. I managed to shrug off my reaction, it had to be jet lag.

Outside, people were boarding a bus marked, “Literary Tour,” and I joined them.

I knew one or two practitioners from state meetings. Three cheery Australians from the Australasian College of Behavioural Optometry introduced themselves. I recognized Lesley Vedelago of Queensland and Simon Grbevski of Sydney, featured speakers at the conference. People from Sweden, Belgium, Italy and Switzerland called out greetings. It was difficult to hear names clearly, tags would help at the evening get-together.

The last to board were English, Owen Leigh and his wife, though later, I learned she was a transplanted Dane. The British don’t call their dentists or optometrists doctor, so it was Mr. Leigh. The Leighs, who lived about two hours away, confessed this was their first visit to Bournemouth.

“It’s an interesting seaside resort,” Owen said.

I smiled. Atlantic City was an interesting seaside resort. Bournemouth was an elegant Victorian dowager sailing grandly through her second millennium.

At St. Peter’s we walked through the impressive church then wandered around the cemetery, trying to read the headstones through the grime of centuries. The Shelley family tomb housed three generations. The poet’s heart was also entombed, according to the church pamphlet, “…saved from the funeral-pyre (after he drowned in the Gulf of Spezia)….” I could have done without that gruesome detail.

Two shadows fell across the mottled façade of the Shelly family tomb. The dark outlines on the moss-covered stones looked sinister and I caught my breath. It wasn’t trouble, it was the Leighs. Jet lag playing more tricks?

“Ready for lunch?” Owen asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I had a kipper breakfast a few hours ago but I’m hungry again.”

Our group ate at Bobby’s, one of the big department stores in the town center. The upstairs restaurant with its panoramic view of the city’s shopping center was crowded and the buffet was mouth-watering. I chose pork bangers with grilled tomatoes and mashed potatoes. Not as meaty as American sausages, the bangers had herbs and bread stuffing and were very satisfying.

After the meal, the group broke up, some heading for their rooms for naps. Bleary-eyed but determined to follow Lars’ advice and not sleep, I set off across the gardens to the pier, glad to walk off the heavy meal. I’d see how far along the beach I could get from the pier. The sea was calm and the wind had died down. The cafes were busy and the boardwalk was crowded with walkers enjoying the mild day.

The crowd had thinned by the time I reached Boscombe Chine, a ravine, according to one of the pamphlets I’d read. As I walked, the hackles on my neck started to rise and I had the uneasy feeling I was being followed. Physicists say this is a response to the reality of the unseen world. The few times I risked a look back, I didn’t recognize anyone and no one showed the slightest interest in me. It had to be fatigue and my overly vivid imagination.

Boscombe’s pier was shorter than Bournemouth’s but because the cliffs had steadily risen to hundreds of feet, there was a chair lift for trips up and down the steep incline. A zigzag path snaked up the cliffs for walkers. I had time to go farther, perhaps see the rest of the front before the get-together. A tanned senior in neat overalls was painting the front of a small beach chalet a brilliant blue. I stopped and asked about it, casually glancing back, not seeing anything worrisome.

“People rent ’em for the summer.” He looked me over. “The family spend the day, make a meal, enjoy a cuppa, change their clothes in private. I own this one and another at the end and rent to holidaymakers. It’s my retirement fund, these places start at a hundred thousand.”

I knew he meant pounds, not Euros, because the English had kept their own currency when they joined the European Union in 1973. I did the math and whistled. A hundred thousand pounds wasn’t chump change. At the current exchange rate it was close to two hundred thousand dollars.

“Thanks, I’m here for a week, at a conference.”

“Come for a holiday next year,” he said and went back to his careful painting.

I sat on one of the benches along the front and stared at the ocean. Waves crept languidly up the empty beach. Farther out, the heaving water was a rich green, wave crests stretching in curling white ripples. As they came to shore, the waves paled to a sheen of silver darkened by strands of seaweed. Behind me, the cliffs rose imposingly. A cactus-type of succulent creeper was spread out over much of the sandy bluffs and small palm trees were dotted here and there. I consulted the pamphlet. Southbourne Beach came after Boscombe in the eleven-mile expanse of curving shore that stretched to a place called Hengistbury Head.

I decided to try and walk to Southbourne and set off, glancing back occasionally. I wouldn’t have noticed anything if it hadn’t been for the abrupt movement of a man who looked like he was deliberately ducking back by the zigzag’s stone wall. Was he trying to avoid being seen? The only other person in view was the man painting the beach hut. I kept my eyes fixed on the spot. Was it the man at the conference center who looked like Matt Wahr? Was I turning into a Nervous Nellie? The trouble in Manhattan had seemed never-ending but now I was three thousand miles away and I didn’t have to jump at every falling leaf.

Time to be bold. I walked quickly back and saw that whoever it was must have turned onto the zigzag walk and started up the cliff. The first zig was empty and bushes hid the rest of the path. Whoever it was had to be a good way up by now. Had I misinterpreted the hasty movement? Nervous tension swamped me and I set off east again, arguing with myself about light and the distortions of shadows.

Minutes later, in Southbourne, the pedestrian walkway ended. Deep golden sand stretched ahead but I decided to leave the beach and return to the hotel along the cliff top. Some way back I’d seen a second chair lift and I decided to take it. The ticket seller poured heavy coins in my hand in exchange for my crisp pound note and the ride up the cliff was quick and smooth. The lift unloaded right by a bus stop and the sign on the waiting double-decker read, “Bournemouth Centre.” Impulsively, I jumped on the bus and climbed to the open top deck after handing over some of my coins to the driver. No one boarded the bus after me and I breathed in relief as we left the bus stop. Sandy dunes lined the cliff side of the road. On the opposite side, small hotels faced the sea, their hanging baskets and courtyards gay with flowers but no billboard. So far, what I’d seen of the area was free of ugly commercialism, even though I’d read that the south coast’s main industry was tourism.

Back at the Royal Bath, I had another quick shower and put on my one suit, a light taupe wool Lanny had gifted me a year ago. Perfect for an English spring evening. A black silk blouse and dressy flat shoes and I was ready. I looked around cautiously as I crossed the gardens but no one dodged out of sight. I made record time, propelled by twinges of angst. The buzz of loud talk at the party spilled down the corridor. I took a glass of red wine from the bar and a cheese snack from a waiter and circulated. The noise escalated beyond comfort level and I joined Bob Williams and Earl Lizotte, who were chatting on the fringe of the crowd.

“Did you see Steve Farge from Bernell yet? He’s looking for you,” Bob Williams asked. “Leave a message at the front desk if you don’t catch up with him here. How did you like the literary trip? I’ve heard rave reviews about the trip to Christchurch. I’m told the eleventh-century priory is impressive.”

“I can recommend St. Peter’s, the graveyard was fascinating,” I said. “Are you going on the Christchurch trip?”

“I’d like to go but probably you need to include me out,” Bob said. “I rarely have a free moment at meetings like this.” Right then, I was sorry Bob didn’t have any free time but with hindsight, it’s doubtful his presence could have changed the outcome of that disastrous excursion.

I wasn’t due to give the paper until the third day of the conference and by then I’d enjoyed several nights of deep sleep. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach when it was time for the presentation but with Steve Farge’s help at the question and answer section, it went smoothly enough. Over dinner that evening, a small group of us sat and talked. Decoding Fred Anders’ work needed time but the implication of his prototypes was profound.

“Once we finish building the units, we start testing,” Steve said. “We’ll send prototypes to four of the major colleges and they’ll check them out. This equipment is so innovative, it goes far beyond anything like the second Visagraph Taylor and Nystrom designed.”

“That measured how well you process information as well as sampling eye-movement positions as much as sixty times a second, correct?” someone asked.

“It’s possible there’s a way,” I said, remembering something Fred Anders had told me. “Usually, if the person is still, you can visually monitor the video.”

“Incredible,” Horrie said. “Remember when Westinghouse developed an armchair that automatically measured blood pressure, heart rate and various other facts about whoever was sitting in it?”

“We’re behind schedule but this isn’t work that can be hurried,” he explained. “We don’t have Dr. Anders to answer questions so there’s a certain amount of trial and error.”

The rest of the conference kept me busy. Lectures were followed by evenings of informal discussions. I didn’t skip anything and most days I started with a short walk on the beach. I never caught sight of anyone ducking out of sight again and I didn’t get another glimpse of the man whom I thought had looked like Matt Wahr. I persuaded myself that fatigue had deceived me on my first day and concentrated on the conference. Any time I looked in to the exhibit hall it was so jammed that I skipped it. I slept deeply, courtesy of Bournemouth’s soft air, notorious for putting people to sleep.

“Bournemouth was known for TB sanitariums at the turn of the nineteenth century,” the hall porter told me. “The patients slept on open porches to benefit from the smell of pine trees. The truth is, sea-level air reduces the corpuscle count of red blood.”

Maybe my lowered corpuscle count was why I didn’t have any strange dreams the way I had after Mary Sakamoto was killed. Maybe I just didn’t remember them in the morning. The conference was winding down and I was disappointed to find the tours were over. Two Californians, Bob Sanet and Beth Ballinger, had raved about Christchurch, enchanted by the quaint town that was long on charm, tearooms and swans gliding on Christchurch Bay.

“Don’t miss it,” Beth said. “Go round the priory first and be sure to stop in at the rose garden, it’s beautiful.”

Horrie Humphreys hadn’t been on any of the tours either.

“Nothing to stop the two of us taking a trip to Christchurch,” he suggested and we agreed to go after the conference ended. A decision lightly taken with irrevocable results.

On the last day of the conference, I listened to a panel of European practitioners discussing activities in their countries, a far cry from my sheltered world at SUNY. After lunch, I sat in on Bob Bertolli’s presentation about drug-testing detection and sobriety tests by Gus Forkiotis.

“When defense lawyers read about Dr. Forkiotis’ experience as an Expert Witness, they plead their DUI clients guilty,” Bob said and the audience clapped loudly. The questions ran long and I was beginning to think we’d have to forget the trip to Christchurch but finally the presentation came to a close and Horrie and I were free to leave. The conference really was over, it had been a wonderful experience and now it was time for some sightseeing. The main hall at the center was crowded as people started to leave. A few were returning home, many were setting off on trips around England. Horrie and I went outside to look for a taxi.

“Let’s walk down to Bournemouth Square,” Horrie suggested. “Too many people ahead of us here to get a taxi for quite a while.”

He was right. Even though there was a long line of taxis, the line of people waiting with their luggage was longer. As we were walking away, a crowded bus at the head of the line pulled out slowly. Someone in the rear seat glanced out of the window in my direction and I stopped cold in my tracks, appalled. This time, I knew I was definitely seeing the man who’d attacked my dear godmother at the National Arts Club. We stared at each other for several agonizingly slow seconds. Then the coach accelerated and he was gone, leaving a trail of exhaust and questions in my mind. What
was
that look on his face? Satisfaction? Was he satisfied he’d avoided me at the conference? He didn’t seem concerned that I obviously recognized him. He does look a little bit like Matt Wahr but perhaps I’m wrong about that. Why was he here?