Ear-Witness by Mary Ann Scott

apples cooking with cinnamon. The second was the books. Outside a library, I’d never seen so many together in one place. Not just on the shelves, which covered two whole walls of the living room, but all over the place. Piles of them stood on the floor in front of the bookcases, on end tables, leaning into armchairs, even on the couch. There were newspapers too, three or four different ones, and serious-looking magazines.
    The walls that didn’t have book-cases had paintings. I moved closer to look at them. Thanks to Raffi, I’m not a total ignoramus about art. These were abstracts, really nice ones.
    Jon touched one, on the frame. “My mom’s. I guess the room’s sort of a mess.”
    â€œI love it,” I said. I wasn’t just being polite. It was the best room I’d ever been in.
    I followed him through the dining room, where half the table was covered by a computer work station, and two very untidy piles of paper: one hand-written; the other printed. The printed pages had corrections marked on them in red pen. Behind the table there was a china cabinet. It was full of books too.
    â€œThey must be in the kitchen,” Jon said.
    Mr. Bell looked exactly like I expected he would, only older. Long and thin and cheerful-looking, just like Jon, but with greyish, ratherthan blond hair. Mrs. Bell was a complete surprise. I expected her to be tall and thin too, and elegant and sophisticated. Instead, she was short, shorter even than me, and sort of roly-poly. When she twisted a wisp of dark hair behind one ear and smiled, she looked like one of Santa’s elves.
    â€œYou’ll have some applesauce,” she said. “Fresh made.” This wasn’t a question, it was almost an order, but nobody was taking offence.
    We sat on benches at a huge polished wooden table that looked really old. It had gouges all over it, even some black circles from cup rings. While I talked to Mrs. Bell about the cookbooks on the openshelved cabinet behind us, Jon and his father got into an argument about politics. It was an OK argument; they were listening to each other, but they disagreed. Nothing mean was going on.
    After we finished our applesauce, Jon and I went back to the living room to talk about the murder. The only new thing I had to tell him was about Raffi.
    â€œThe cops took him away, but ...” I explained how they only did that because Raffi hadn’t gone to his appointment. “Then they let him go.”
    Jon frowned. “He can’t be a serious suspect if they let him go,” he said.
    â€œHe seemed pretty worried to me, I guess because he doesn’t have an alibi.”
    â€œThat doesn’t mean he did it,” Jon said. “I don’t have an alibi either.”
    â€œYou aren’t a suspect. Raffi is.”
    â€œDo you believe he actually ...?”
    â€œNo, of course not,” I said. “But I have a bad feeling about the whole thing.”
    Jon put his hand on mine. “Why?” he said.
    â€œI wish I knew.”

    â€œI met Jon’s parents,” I said.
    â€œAnd?” Mom’s mouth was full of cornbread, but she asked anyway.
    â€œThey’re nice. They read a lot. Mrs. Bell paints.”
    â€œSpeaking of reading,” Mom said, “there was an article on vegetarianism I wanted to save but I can’t find the magazine. Have either of you seen it?”
    I shrugged.
    â€œI think I read it,” Raffi said. “But I don’t know where. Is Jon’s mother Abby Bell, Jess?”
    I shrugged again.
    â€œYou saw paintings?”
    I nodded.
    â€œAbstracts? Lots of colour? Geometric shapes flowing into each other?” he asked.
    â€œYeah,” I said. “How did you know?”
    â€œShe’s a real artist,” he said. “I knew she lived around here somewhere. So when do we get to meet Jon?”
    â€œI dunno,” I said. “What’s going on here?”
    â€œSheena