Silent End by Nancy Springer Page B

memorizing—not the meanings, just the spellings. Nobody in the club knew or used Scrabble words in any context other than Scrabble.
    “Yataghan,” Doug whispered to himself, his brow creased beneath blunt, childish bangs. “Y-a-t-a-g-h-a-n.”
    Standing right beside Doug, Judith knew he was not speaking to her and did not wish to be spoken to. She addressed Dick instead. “Sorry I snapped at you. I’ve had a terrible day. Had to call the police. Somebody—”
    “Did you see the trophies from Saturday?” Beaming, Dick pointed toward a gleaming, aspiring display.
    There had been a tournament, evidently. Who cared? “Somebody put a body—”
    “I’m not in Novice anymore.” Dick’s smile echoed the lines of his triple chin as several women turned to congratulate him. “Yes, I got Master.”
    “That’s great,” Judith mumbled. “I suppose Doug won overall?”
    “No, Eloise won!”
    Judith almost offered Doug her sympathies. Three times so far she had found herself facing Eloise across Eloise’s gold-filigree-and-mother-of-pearl custom-made Scrabble board, and each time she had managed to hold her own—or so she had thought until Eloise, at the end of each game, had used her seven remaining letters (“Bingo! Fifty extra points.”) and gone out. Which was brilliant if done once, almost impossible if done the way Eloise did it—habitually. Each time, caught flat-footed, Judith had realized that Eloise had been playing clawed cat to her mouse—and had looked up to see Eloise watching her get it. (“Aw, Judy want a crying towel?”) Even playing Doug was not as bad as playing Eloise. Doug never cut even the most novice opponent a break, and he always won, but he didn’t gloat. Actually, he didn’t speak at all, usually.
    “Sforzato,” Doug whispered, tuning out various conversations. “S-f-o-r-z-a-t-o.”
    “Um, good for her,” Judy told Dick. “I guess. Uh, like I was saying, somebody—” But Dick headed away, still nattering about his trophy. Judith turned to one of the women, a retired librarian named Phyllis, and started over. “You know my shop, Personal Pottery?” Dumb question. Judith talked up her business wherever she went. Everybody here knew all about it. “The most horrible thing has happened. Somebody, probably my ex-husband, burned a dead body in my kiln, and the police—”
    “Kill,” said an unexpected voice in quite a peremptory tone. Judith looked down to find Doug staring up from under his forelock, his vague, pallid eyes actually focused on her. “Kill,” he repeated. “It’s pronounced ‘kill.’ The ‘n’ is silent.”
    “Whatever.” Judith just wanted to talk about what had happened. She needed to talk the way she had needed to recite It’s infidelities and It’s emotional cruelties after It had left her. She babbled at Phyllis, “A woman, it had to be a woman, the ashes I mean, because there was a lot of gold in there, and a diamond, and how many men wear that kind of jewelry? Besides, the coroner thinks the bones probably belonged to a woman. Girlfriend, maybe. It had to be—”
    But Dick was calling the club to order. Judith sat opposite Phyllis and played, but quite badly. She kept forgetting to tap the timer, she kept forgetting to mark down letters used so she would know what her opponent was holding during the end game; she even forgot to keep score. Instead, she kept talking, while Phyllis and several eavesdroppers listened with varying degrees of incredulity, discomfort and fascination. Eventually, stopping the timer, Phyllis asked, “You really think the police suspect you of murder ?”
    “Yes! They’re treating it as a homicide. They told me not to leave town.”
    “But they don’t know who the victim is?”
    “How could they? There’s not even teeth left.”
    “But you think your ex-husband did it just to implicate you?”
    “I wouldn’t put it beyond him!” Though honestly, Judith thought, she had never believed It could murder