Bullet in the Night (18 page)

Rob started to mumble then quieted. “All right already. I got no objection.”

“Good. Any other concerns?”

“I got one,” Rob fired quickly. “I don’t like Carrie telling all our private stuff to people.”

“I’ll talk about whatever I want, right?” Carrie looked to me, still needing huge doses of reassurance.

“If your goal is positive and constructive. When you’re stuck on an issue, counseling can help but skip the gossip with friends. You and Rob can help each other, not tear one another down. Enough people and life events will do that for you.”

“I’ll stop bad-mouthing Rob if he treats me better.” Carrie looked at Rob sheepishly.

He squirmed. “Whatever,” he said.

“Okay, moving on. You both say you’re Christians. That’s not just a Sunday thing. Talk to God throughout the day. Ask every morning for God’s blessing and protection on your marriage and your kids.”

“We ain’t never done that.” Carrie fiddled with her ring and sent Rob a sideways glance.

“Will you give it a try?” I pressed.

Rob shrugged. Carrie nodded yes.

“And you might try holding hands and saying a prayer in bed every night before falling asleep.”

Rob shook his head. “I stay up later than her.”

“Then grab her hand when she says good night before she goes to bed. You can adapt and make these suggestions work for you, Rob. You’re a smart guy.”

He chewed down hard on his gum. “Maybe.”

“Good.” I picked up the Marriage Enrichment folder and whipped through my papers until I found the ones I wanted. “Here are emotional intimacy suggestions and a handout called Conflict Resolution—how to fight right without destroying each other.” I handed over both papers. “Please read them before our next session.”

“Cool,” Carrie said.

Rob scratched his chin. “I’ll do the dating and try the praying ’cause that’s easy, but I’m gonna have to think about coming again. I’m a busy guy. I don’t have time for all this.” He waved his arm in a half-circle.

“You better,” Carrie insisted.

“I’m not giving in about everything. I should be the boss of what we do.”

Time for me to interject. “The goal in marriage is not ‘Rob wins’ or ‘Carrie wins’ but that both of you get your needs met and respect one another.”

Rob stood up. “Okay, we’re done for today. I’ll be in the car. See ya.” He waved his hand as he walked past me. I preferred to think that meant he’d be back.

“Carrie, use tough love wisely. Rob hasn’t been sensitive to you for a long time, but that’s no excuse for being overly demanding or unkind to him now that’s he’s beginning to try.”

“Okay.”

I scheduled another visit with optimism, and she hurried out. I’d have been pleased about our session except for one gnawing fact—Rob’s taking satisfaction in Lenora’s shooting. His viciousness disturbed me.

I tried to picture him as Lenora’s assailant. Trekking through wooded terrain he’d manage with ease, but I couldn’t see him waiting patiently to fire.

But then, I’d been wrong about people before.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

At two a.m. I awoke to Nick’s snoring punctuating the silence of our bedroom. I tossed in bed, fighting a fruitless battle for sleep. Drowsiness played with me, bringing me ever so close before luring me away with thoughts of Lenora. I gave up, rolled out bed quietly as to not awaken Nick, and stumbled into the den.

Behind the closed door, I lit my desk lamp, inhaling the scent of Genji shower gel I’d used earlier. I pulled my well-worn
Orthodoxy
 book by G. K. Chesterton from the blue bookcase I’d streaked with white glaze years ago when the process was considered trendy.

Philosophy should induce sleep, right?

After twenty minutes, I gave up and picked up the file box containing Lenora’s private papers.

The soft light in the room helped dispel the creepy feeling of invading someone’s life unknown to them. It seemed like I was holding binoculars to her window. What would I see? My only consolation was knowing she’d want me to do this.

I reviewed the most recent entries in her appointment book and worked my way back.
 Lord, did I miss anything?

I checked again for names that had been marked out, which I’d glossed over before. Now, examining more closely the remaining parts of the letters and tediously comparing all three cross-outs, I concluded the first letter and the last letter of each were A. I ruled out males because Lenora’s private practice client load was predominantly female. I picked up my Ipad from the desk and searched an online for a list of girl babies’ names beginning with A.

Alicia, Amelia, Amanda, Angela. This name had been written and inked out in every Wednesday the three weeks before Lenora was shot. “A” may have been a new client scheduled to come who changed her mind.

Angela Denton? Why no phone number next to the name? Lenora had written numbers next to her other appointments. Recording a number was common office procedure. Perhaps she had the number memorized or the person had no phone? Or maybe it wasn’t safe to call? Clients sometimes didn’t let family members know they were seeking professional counseling. If Lenora had worked with Angela, why hadn’t she recorded any notes about Mrs. Denton in her files? Surely she would have written an initial assessment at least.

I scoured the appointment book for any other references to “A” but found none. Might this entry have been for a social visit rather than a counseling session?

I stuck my hand into the file pockets on the front and back cover. Two post-it size notes were stuck deep in the back one. One doodle, half-printed read, “Need to finish report for the American Jail Association, good project for Tucker if he’ll do it. He’s been moody lately.” Hmm. Insight into their relationship?

The other note read: “Ask Tucker about the foundation account? Didn’t the Landers family bequest come in? Balance seems off?”

The notes niggled at me. I disliked being suspicious, but for all I knew, he could be a gambler misappropriating funds and selling Lenora’s home out from under her. Why don’t women run background checks before they marry? Maybe a return to the good old days of arranged marriages or hooking up with someone from your own hometown might be a good idea. Then you’d have knowledge of what you’re getting plus mutual history.

Jennifer, don’t be ridiculous
. Men don’t shoot their wives because they found them moody and irritable. Still the reference to the account intrigued me. Was Lenora referring to a simple clerical error? What of the other note? Did Tucker resent Lenora’s occasional working on weekends? Is that why she wanted to keep him busy? Few marriages escaped periodic stone-in-the-oyster-shell irritations. Rather than make pearls, the majority of people ripped out their grit with divorce.

Lenora had jotted in an appointment with her personal lawyer set to take place the Thursday after she was shot. Why was she seeing him?

I pondered Tucker’s weekday living arrangement in Chicago. Long-distance intimacy could wither fast.

When it came to abusive behavior toward wives, I had seen so much that I was suspicious of husbands until proven innocent. Tucker appeared to show deep concern for Lenora but was that only since her shooting? Judging from his doting behavior and comments now, perhaps he regretted some measure of neglect in the past.

He and Lenora were apart more than they were together. I’d seen too much infidelity not to wonder. Not that he seemed a ladies’ man.

Emotions people exhibited during trauma weren’t always reliable. When I experienced excruciating pain, I often giggled. How crazy was that?

Could I, for a moment, suspect Tucker? Then again, why not? Did he actually have Christian morality or the mores of society? Anyone was capable of evil. I’d come a long way from my naïve, pre-Christian days believing everyone was basically good.

But he wasn’t even in town when Lenora was shot; his alibi was airtight. I snapped shut the box and clicked off the light.

Nick was still asleep when I rolled my body against his back, hoping to entice him to wakefulness. He turned over and encircled me with his arms.

“What’s wrong?” he murmured sleepily.

“Nothing you can’t make right, darling. I can’t sleep.” I began to kiss his neck.

He rolled over and began to snore.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

By the time I’d finished with my clients the next day, my subconscious had formulated a step-by-step plan for the evening, starting with a call to Tucker.

“Call before you visit.” My mother’s training served me well.

I caught him planning to leave for dinner in half an hour. “I’ll be right over. I need to get something.” I hung up before he could object. Not that I liked going in the first place, preferring to stay home with my family. Their energy and laughter appealed more than the scene of any crime, but I now had signed permission slips which enabled me to collect Lenora’s group files to continue the counseling sessions with Carrie and Sandy.

Tucker answered my first knock. Gray circles ringed his eyes. He looked haggard. Sinatra crooned “I Did It My Way” over the radio. The words used to send a ripple of determination through me until I began to prefer doing things God’s way.

Tucker’s shoulders slumped unbecomingly. He reminded me of an elderly chief. Shouldn’t he be surrounded by Indian braves?

“Are you okay?” The words shot out of my mouth.

“Sure.” He appeared flustered. Commenting on his demeanor seemed to make him more uncomfortable.

“Thanks for waiting. I am counseling Lenora’s gals. They consented. I’ll need their recent files.”

“You want to take them? Must you?”

“It’s best. I’ll add my notes to hers. Is there a problem?”

You’d have thought I was asking for the keys to his house. People acted strange during trauma, but this? “Remember, you wanted me to help. I’ll be careful with them.”

He sighed. “All right.”

Tucker snapped on lights and led me through the great room. Even during the day, shadows filled the room. We walked past the open kitchen and breakfast room where I’d visited with my friend sitting on the lovely antique wicker furniture in green chintz spattered with peach and pink roses. Lenora should be perched there, exuding her brilliant enthusiasm. White enameled cupboards contrasted with the natural knotty pine walls in the main sitting room with its stately brick red fireplace. So Lenora.

Entering Lenora’s office, I went directly to the six-foot-long carved library table desk. Inside its drawer, I hunted for a pen to write down today’s date and notate the files I was removing. Nothing but whiteout, rubber bands, and markers. I remembered a pen in my over-the-shoulder bag.

Tucker hovered on my heels, acting like a guard at King Tut’s tomb. Why the tight surveillance? Was he worried what I might find? Strange. I paused in my writing.

I approached the file cabinet, opened the top drawer, and worked my way through the alphabet, keeping these thoughts to myself. Nothing there but studies on prisoner behavior.

“Tucker, you’re making me nervous.”

“Sorry. I want to help.”

I decided to test him. “By the way, I came across a note from Lenora about the foundation account.”

He stiffened and avoided my eyes. “Nothing but a bookkeeping error. I made a deposit into our personal account by mistake and straightened it out as soon as I realized.”

“That’s understandable.” A draft of cold air wafted through the open door.

“Lenora was peeved with me; I’m usually thorough. We’d laughed about it. She said she didn’t want to have to fire me.” Now his eyes riveted on mine. “Certainly you don’t think I’d do something unethical...”

“Of course not. I wasn’t implying anything, simply asking what happened.”

“Good.” He looked relieved. For Lenora’s sake, I hoped he was innocent. She loved this man.

“Forgive me.” He’d invited me to help, hadn’t he?

Tucker turned down the music and settled on a green chair near the desk. I surmised noise helped fill the void of Lenora’s presence.

He glanced at an envelope on the desk, and his eyes filled. “Just seeing Lenora’s handwriting is painful. Her arms are now stuck with IV needles, and I wonder if she’ll ever be able to write another word.”

I walked over and gave him a spontaneous hug.

Clearly uncomfortable, he turned a blotchy pink. I made a mental note not to try that again. How could a woman who loved Battenburg lace and floral chintz, elegance and excitement, marry a cold persona like Tucker? Had he been a “settling for less than” as some women chose to do when faced with growing old alone?

Journals under Lenora’s desk were stacked into cardboard file boxes. My friend had often joked about being a pack rat. Now I observed the extent for myself.

Several wire bins on the desktop overflowed with correspondence and yellow pages torn from legal pads. Filing apparently wasn’t her thing either.

I rifled through, finding nothing of significance in the first two. To my delight, the third held Lenora’s current counseling folders. I tucked the three I needed under my arm and straightened up.

“Done?” Tucker perked up as he said the word.

“Yes. I’ll be taking off. How about you? Do you travel to the city tonight after your dinner?”

Tucker cleared his throat loudly before answering. “I resigned from my research job yesterday.”

“What?” My eyes widened. “Why? Couldn’t you have taken a temporary leave of absence?”

“Not with the deadline looming on our current project. It required someone full time. Right now it’s hard for me to think about anything but Lenora. Funny, she always wanted me to spend more time on foundation work, but I was too busy. Now it’s all I have.” He lowered his eyes.

A ripple went through my chest. Why are men reluctant to show their feelings after years of talk shows about sensitivity issues? I gritted my teeth and approached Lenora’s bookcase. A tiny wooden box on a shelf caught my eye. The top, painted with the words, “The Secret of Success,” intrigued me. I lifted the lid and read, “
Work hard, laugh much, and live well
.” The saying fit Lenora.