Georgianne got positively goo-goo-eyed over my dog. And it looked like my best friend was returning the favor. They were just lucky that I was too busy worrying about the prowlers and murderers to spend much time worrying about them. Clancy would hear about this treasonous behavior later.
I ushered Georgianne out of the door while listening to her “dear little doggie-woggie.” I thought I was going to be sick. But this time I would know the cause.
I closed the door and locked it. “Clancy, I’ll talk to you later about your unconscionable behavior. You ought to be ashamed. Right now I’ve got some important stuff to think about, so go to your room and I mean it.”
Clancy went to her room and collapsed on our bed. Even though I couldn’t see her, I knew exactly what she was doing. The dog version of “Camille.” Dramatic. I’d make up with her later. She needed to feel the sting of my lack of affection for a while.
The parade that passed by my house this evening sounded like an interesting one. Who was the first woman? She must have been disguised or new in town for Georgianne not to identify her. Then Carolyn, Charlie, and Gwen. What a motley crew. I’d call Gwen tomorrow and find out why she was at my house. Carolyn’s motive was easy to figure out. She was probably trying to decide how to kill me.
Okay, maybe I’m dramatic too. Anyway, Carolyn was up to no good. Of that I was very, very sure.
After I turned the lights off I noticed the insistent blinking of the red dot on the answering machine. I’d forgotten to check my messages. The first one was indeed B.H. saying that he would be late for dinner. So he hadn’t lied after all, what a surprise. There was also one from Jen reminding me of her children’s birthday party tomorrow evening. Both her kids were born on the same day, one year apart. It made planning parties quite easy for her.
I slept the sleep of the innocent and woke early enough for a wonderfully long walk. Clancy took this as a sign of amnesty and things were pretty well back to normal with the two of us. I did let her know how I felt about her attention to Georgianne.
“I don’t know how you could be so loose with your affection. Remember that you pee on her plants because we don’t like her. And you notice that it’s
we
don’t like her, not
I
don’t like her.” Then I resorted to a low blow. “Remember who feeds you.”
Clancy glanced back at me from her vantage point at the end of the leash. She looked suitably contrite. I had no doubts, however, that she would lavish her fickle affection on Georgianne at the earliest available opportunity. Anything for a belly rub.
At home I toasted a bagel, gave a piece to Clancy and put peanut butter on my portion. As I chomped I looked around for something to wear to work. Vowing to give in and do some clothes shopping, I dragged out an old pair of khakis, prayed they’d still fit, and sucked in my gut as I struggled with the zipper. I paired the slacks with a big color-blocked sweater. It covered my hips and would be handy in case I split the seam on the pants.
Today was a great day to walk to work. I still didn’t have my own car and also didn’t have anything to carry to work except my purse. Clancy didn’t whine when I said goodbye and I enjoyed the quick walk to the clinic. I wore sunglasses because the glare off the snow from the bright sun was blinding. No complaints though. The sight was mesmerizing.
Clara Schmitt was at her desk when I arrived. She handed a file to me. I actually had a second patient. I took a few minutes to read about Andy Duesterhaus, a thirteen-year-old boy who was described as sullen, moody, and non-communicative. Sounded like my kids when they were thirteen. He’d been referred by the school counselor and so far hadn’t been seen by a mental health professional. I planned to do a diagnostic interview and formulate the diagnosis and treatment plan from there.
I had enough time to fill my coffee cup and take one sip when Clara announced that Andy was in the waiting room. Without being seen, I was able to peek around the corner to get a look at him. Andy appeared to be a normal, red-blooded American boy. He oozed contempt for grown-ups, had pierced ears, and his clothes looked like he had picked them out of a rag bin. I welcomed him, walked with him to my office, and offered him a seat. He didn’t make eye contact but he sat.
“What brings you here today?”
The usual response from adolescents was something like, “My parents are raggin’ on me. They think there’s something wrong.” Or, “Nothin’.” Or even, “My parents made me come.”
Andy’s response was silence.
I tried a few more opening gambits. And got nothing from him. Not too unusual. The only noticeably odd thing about Andy was that he was clutching a laptop computer.
After talking for a few minutes with no response from the peanut gallery, I turned on the PC on my desk and began fiddling with it. He still didn’t speak, but shortly the hairs on the back of my neck stood up because he was breathing on me.
“Way cool.” Ah, he spoke.
“Pardon me?”
“Way cool. You’re up to level four of
The Thundering Horde
. I’ve never seen an adult get past level two.” I could feel his hands and arms moving behind me.
“I like computers and I like to play games.” Not looking at him yet. Still playing the game. “What level you at?”
“I finished level ten, so I’m done.”
“Cool. What else do you like to do?” Still playing my game.
“Playing
Sandblaster
is pretty fun and I kinda like that new game,
Aliens from the Deep
.”
“I’ve never played those. Are they on your computer?” When he nodded, I asked, “Will you teach me how to play?”
I assumed his grunt meant “yes,” so I continued. “Do you have those on your laptop or on a PC at home?”
He replied they were on both computers, then said, “Do you want me to show you now?”
Now it was my turn to nod.
He placed the laptop on my desk and turned it on.
I was a willing pupil. Andy was right, these games were fun, but a bit gory.
The “ding” signifying the end of the hour came all too soon, and I didn’t feel a bit guilty about earning money for playing games. This was a good start to building a therapeutic relationship with Andy. Maybe next week, he’d even say hello before the computer got turned on.
I had no idea what was going on with him, but at least we were communicating. That was a start.
As I said goodbye to Andy in the lobby, my mind turned to my other task at hand. I needed proof that Carolyn killed her husband and also needed to find her accomplice. This Claudia Wolfe Burns appeared a likely candidate, but I couldn’t imagine her—or anyone for that matter—teaming up with the snooty Carolyn Burns. Carolyn was not the type to have intimate female friends. She was too catty and was also the consummate flirt with men.
I also planned to figure out how the killer got out of the room without dragging blood along.
Before I left for the day I checked with Mrs. Schmitt regarding my schedule. I had three patients scheduled for tomorrow and three more for Friday. Things were looking up.
As I was getting my coat and locking my desk, I suddenly felt like going to Burns’ office one more time. I left my things on my loveseat. The tape had been taken off Burns’ office door and the police were finished with the room, but I still entered through the kitchen door. It was like my private entrance to the crime scene.
The room looked much the same. Someone had cleaned off the fingerprint powder and the rug had been shampooed. Nothing was going to remove the blood though. I’d seen enough blood in my life, being from a large, rowdy family. The stain was now a dull rust color and formed a circular pattern around a lot of the room, with random splatters branching out. My bet was that the rug would be discarded in a few days.
I wondered who would make that decision. Heck, I didn’t even know who my boss was yet. It was surprising how well the mental health portion of the clinic functioned without a doctor there.
The file cabinet beckoned me. I really didn’t want to snoop, but it seemed a shame to pass up the opportunity to look in the drawer Carolyn had pilfered. Of course, I didn’t have proof that she took anything, I just didn’t buy her statement that she was looking for insurance papers.
This particular cabinet held patient files. Dr. Burns had copies of all the folders, even when others were the primary therapists. At first glance, everything appeared to be in order. Then I noticed Mrs. Abernathy’s file was placed after a Jenny Agnew, when it should have been in front of it. There were several others out of place as well, as if they’d been filed haphazardly. I didn’t know what to make of this, but filed the information in my brain—in the right order—for later retrieval.
Now seemed like a good time to read a few files. I’d already read Mrs. Abernathy’s and even made a few notations myself in the clinic file near Clara Schmitt’s desk. I noticed my new notes weren’t copied into this file yet. I decided to look at other misfiled records. The first one after Mrs. Abernathy was Alonzo Baron. Then Clare Chaplin and Katrina Ditmeyer. I plucked them from the drawer and took them into my office.
No glaring errors or omissions popped out at me as I read. But some items in the patient histories seemed eerily familiar. I struggled with an ethical dilemma. It was wrong to take patient files out of the office or to make copies without the client’s permission. However I really wanted to compare some of this information with Carolyn’s books. If I could prove she used patient files as fodder for her books that would be one step closer to proving she was her husband’s murderer.
I thought that I could scan a file and then email it to myself at home. Yet I didn’t see that as being any better than making copies. Finally I compromised—I’d make copies of pertinent sections and then swore to myself I’d destroy them as soon as possible. The only other option was to bring Carolyn’s novels into work with me and that would seem suspicious.
The copy machine jammed a few times. Of course. But I hurried and completed my task as quickly as I could. It was one thing being nosey, but it was quite another copying files illicitly.
As I returned the files to Burns’ office, the matter of the blood spatters caught my attention again. How could someone have killed him and not be covered with blood? I remembered that the window had been open—an obvious entrance and exit, but that still didn’t answer the blood question. There probably wasn’t a clue to be found since the cops had gone over the room pretty thoroughly. I sat on the floor, right where Burns had fallen, and looked around. A picture of Gwen crouched in a fetal position behind the door flashed in my mind. Was it possible she’d been there the whole time? Nah, she didn’t have any blood on her and besides, she wasn’t guilty.
Time passed quickly as I lost myself in thoughts, but no solutions poked their heads through my reverie. It was already dark when I rejoined the present. I ran to my office and gathered my things, and practically ran home, hard to do in the dark and snow.
When I finally got home, Clancy got a hurried walk. I knew she was thinking that Georgianne was looking more and more attractive. “Clancy, this isn’t a long enough walk, you’re right, but I’m late for Rosie’s and Annie’s birthday party.”
At that she stopped her baleful looks. Clancy loved my nieces and nephews, but I couldn’t take her with me tonight since Jen’s house would be full of people.
I arrived at Jen and Manh’s house just as folks were sitting down to dinner.
“Aunt Sam.”
“Aunt Sam, look over here.”
“Aunt Sam.”
“Come here, Aunt Sam. I want to show you something.”
“Sit by me, Aunt Sam.
“Wahhhhh! I want Aunt Sam.”
Murder, schmurder.
This
is what I really loved.
SEVENTEEN
O
ne family tradition was
for everyone to gather for all of the children’s birthdays. Today Rosie and Annie were both celebrating. Rosie’s real name was Hong, which translates to Rose in English, and Annie’s Vietnamese name was Anh, which easily became Annie. They were on the threshold of teendom, but were still recognizable as human beings.
Since Rosie, at twelve, was the elder, she opened her presents first. Mine was no surprise. Money. It takes no thought or planning on my part, but it is also highly prized by the older kids. They especially like the note on the card.
“Oh, Aunt Sam. You didn’t forget. ‘Happy Birthday, Rosie. This is not underwear money. Have fun. Love, Aunt Sam.’”
Annie echoed her sister’s emotions when it was her turn for presents. The kids all loved having so many cousins and aunts and uncles. That translated into lots of money and presents on the appropriate occasions.
I enjoyed being with my family. The noise and chaos spelled “home” to me. My mind kept drifting to the murder, however. I made sure I had some private time with Pete to let him know what I was up to.
Pete believed me when I said Carolyn was the culprit. He didn’t question my gut feelings and he didn’t make fun of my certainty. He did, however, make me promise to be careful and not to stick my nose in where it didn’t belong. That wasn’t a hard promise to make, since I was sure that my nose belonged right in the middle of this murder investigation.
The noise level increased as the kids got out different outfits to put on a dramatic performance. They’d been rehearsing for weeks. Annie put on her father’s lab coat and glasses and Rosie pranced around in a discarded choir robe. Marty, one of Jill’s sons, was adorable in a disposable surgical gown, mask, glasses, head covering, booties, and gloves. There was nothing of him showing, but I could imagine a contagious grin hidden under the mask. They were discussing (”we’re not arguing, Aunt Sam”) some of the intricacies of the performance, so I took the opportunity to get some work done.
I caught my sister’s eye across the room. “Jen, I’m gonna use the phone. Can I go into your bedroom where it’s quiet?”
I thought she said yes, but it was hard to tell above the din. Anyway, her head bobbed a bit, so I took that as an affirmative.
My next task regarding the murder was to contact Claudia Wolfe Burns. I didn’t know what kind of scam to use to get her to talk to me so I decided to try an unusual tactic, I’d tell her the truth.