Grave Endings (13 page)

“Sorry.” I smiled. “No
Dateline,
I promise. I was just so taken with Creeley's story. And I have to say I'm impressed that you attended the funeral.”

“The father asked me to tell people who were close to Randy. He sounded devastated, poor man.” Bramer checked his watch. “We all talk about compassion. Most of the time we give it lip service. I felt I should set an example.”

“Did Mr. Horton attend?”

“He was out of town. Jason represented him, and Mr. Horton sent flowers from all of us at Rachel's Tent.”

I almost said “I know.” The son was probably the twentysomething man Bramer had introduced to Creeley and Trina. No wonder Roland senior had looked so grateful. “Was Randy close to a lot of the people who worked here?”

“Some more than others. I'm afraid I have to cut our visit short. I know you want to hear our success stories. Let me see if anyone is free to talk to you now. If not, you'll have to come back.”

“Thanks. I appreciate your help.”

Bramer picked up his receiver. I walked over to the wall with the photo of the Horton family standing in front of the entrance to Rachel's Tent. Even nine years ago Horton had had significant gray in his thick hair and looked several years older than his petite, dark-haired wife. The son and daughter were in their late teens and wore tailored suits and dutiful expressions, much like the one I'd seen on the son's face yesterday at Randy's funeral.

Next to the photo was an impressive grouping of Bramer's diplomas, including a doctorate from USC School of Social Work. On the adjacent wall was a bookcase crammed with large tomes. There were more books on the credenza, next to a stack of blue packets, the size seeds come in.

I picked one up. On the front was printed RACHEL'S TENT, above a color image of Rachel's Tomb that matched the mural in the lobby.

“You're in luck.” Bramer put down the receiver. “Barbara Anik, one of our therapists, had a cancellation. Barbara's been here since Rachel's Tent opened, so she can give you a great deal of material for your story.”

“Thank you.”

The name sounded familiar, and a second later I remembered why. Dr. Anik had been Aggie's supervisor. But I hadn't met her the one time I'd been here, and I hadn't seen an Anik in the funeral guest book. So I was safe.

“This looks interesting.” I held up the packet. “Okay if I look inside?”

Before Bramer could answer, I turned over the packet, opened the unsealed flap, and pulled out a length of red thread attached to a teeny gold-tone medallion imprinted with the agency's name.

“We give one of those to each of our clients when she leaves us,” the director said. “We sell them in our gift shop, too. The proceeds help fund our programs. You've heard of the Kabbalah? The study of Jewish mysticism?”

I nodded.

“According to the Kabbalah, a red thread wound around Rachel's Tomb has protective powers. We thought it would be fitting, because of our connection with Rachel.”

“It's a great idea,” I said. “Who came up with it?”

Bramer hesitated. “Randy. He took care of ordering the threads from Israel and filling the envelopes, which we had printed. We handled the rest. Since he quit we've been making our own arrangements. He was a bright young man, enterprising. His death was such a waste.”

The director checked his watch again and stood. “You can take that packet if you like. If you have any more questions, give me a call. Oh, and I'll ask Mr. Horton if he's willing to meet with you. Do you have a card?”

I handed him one.

“Excellent.” Bramer peered at me. “You're sure we haven't met? Because I rarely forget a face, and you look
so
familiar.”

twenty

THE FIRST THING I NOTICED ABOUT BARBARA ANIK WAS her eyes. They were kind eyes, perceptive eyes, almost the same shade of slate gray as the short hair that framed her full, relatively unlined face and set off the soft pink of her sweater.

“I'm definitely the
senior
staff person here,” she said with amusement when I told her Bramer had told me she'd been with Rachel's Tent from its start. “I turned seventy-one last month. They had a cake for me—only one candle, thank goodness, or there would have been a conflagration.”

I had put her in her mid-sixties and I told her so.

“I love what I do. Perhaps that keeps me young. And worrying about others doesn't allow me to spend time on my own concerns.” She smiled. “The truth is, I dread the day they tell me I have to retire. So does my family. I'll probably drive my poor husband and children crazy.”

Her voice was rich and mellow, with a hint of an accent I couldn't place.

“I'm a mutt as far as my speech goes,” she said when I asked about the accent. “I was born in Vienna and I lived there until I was five years old, when my parents sent me to England on the Kindertransport. That was just days before the Germans invaded Poland and began the war. You know what that was? The Children's Transport?” When I nodded, she said, “I met my husband Paul—he's American—when he was at Oxford. He's a professor of economics. We lived in Atlanta and Chicago before settling here.”

“My maternal grandparents were survivors,” I told her, not with the intention of ingratiating myself. At least, I don't think so.

“Ah.” She looked at me with interest. “Where are they from?”

“Poland. They were in various forced-labor camps. They met in Germany after the war and married, then came here a few years later.”

The words were shorthand for the harrowing period Zeidie Irving talked about frequently, though I'm certain he spared us many details. Bubbie G has talked about it less easily and less often, so I hesitated before I asked the therapist whether she had seen her parents again.

“No.” Barbara sighed the word. “It took me a long time to forgive them for sending me away, to understand their sacrifice.” She straightened a stack of papers on her tidy cherrywood desk. “But you didn't come to write about me. Dr. Bramer said you wanted success stories. Let's start with Cindy—that's not her real name, of course.”

She talked with affection and pride about her clients— a prostitute who had transformed her own life, a homeless woman who was now supporting herself and providing for her two young children, an attorney who had left an abusive boyfriend, a woman whose undiagnosed attention deficit disorder had prevented her from holding down a job. The stories were heartwarming, but my mind kept drifting to the packets in Bramer's office. Randy's idea.

“Thank you for sharing those wonderful stories,” I said when the therapist had finished. “Dr. Bramer showed me one of the red-thread packets Rachel's Tent gives to clients when they leave. It's a lovely gesture.”

Barbara smiled. “I have to admit I'm not a believer in red threads. I don't think it's healthy for our clients to rely on miracles. It gives them a false sense of security. But it's a popular item, and the proceeds from those we sell help Rachel's Tent, so I suppose everyone benefits.”

“Dr. Bramer told me about the man who came up with the idea. Randy Creeley? He said Randy died of a drug overdose. It's so ironic and sad. He worked here in Rachel's Tent and didn't get the help you provide for so many others.”

“Very sad.” She nodded. “His death was a shock. But of course we didn't know he needed help.”

“Of course not. He was a handyman, not a client. Was he close to any of the staff?”

The therapist fixed those gray eyes on me. I had the squirmy feeling that I'd tipped my hand. “I'd love to hear more of your successes,” I said to fill the silence.

She linked her fingers and tapped them against her lips. “You're Aggie's friend,” she said, without a trace of accusation or anger. “I thought I recognized your name. She had your picture on her desk, you know. She talked about you all the time. Did we ever meet?”

“No.” I slid my hands along the leather arms of the chair and felt as though I were in my high school principal's office, where I'd been a frequent visitor.

“I didn't think so. Aggie was lovely, truly special. When she was killed we all felt the loss—the staff, her clients. I still think about her.” Barbara rested her folded hands on her desk. “Why are you here, Molly? What can I do for you?” Her voice was gentle, soothing.

I started to cry. Fat tears rolled down my cheeks. I caught them with my tongue and tasted salt. I wiped my eyes with the tissue Barbara handed me.

She left the room and returned with two china cups and saucers, plastic spoons, and packets of sweetener. She placed a filled cup in front of me and resumed her seat, waiting patiently until I was cried out.

“I hate Styrofoam,” she said, with a nod at the cup. “That's lemon-flavored tea. There are other flavors—or coffee, if you prefer.”

“Lemon tea is perfect. You sound like my grandmother. She thinks a
gleyzele
tea is the answer to most problems.”

“She may be right.” Barbara smiled.

I added a packet of sweetener, stirred, and took a sip. The warm liquid was a balm to my throat. “Aggie talked about you, too. She said you were kind and honest. She said she learned a great deal from you.”

“I learned a great deal from
her.
Do you want to tell me why you're here, Molly?”

I finished my tea. “The police found Randy with the locket I gave Aggie.”

I hadn't planned to blurt that out or try to gauge the therapist's reaction, but I couldn't miss the shock in her eyes and the tremor in the lined hands that held the dainty cup. A second later she gazed at me without expression.

“Go on,” she said.

“They think he and Aggie were involved. They think he killed her because she ended their relationship.”

“But you don't believe it.”

“No.”

“The fact that he killed Aggie, or his motive for doing so?”

I was tempted to tell her that Randy's computer was missing; that his girlfriend had come to his funeral in disguise and had made incomprehensible comments about men who were following her.
The ones who killed Aggie.
The ones who killed me.

“His motive,” I said.

“Because she was an observant Jew and Randy wasn't Jewish? Or because she didn't tell you?”

I took a moment to consider. “Both.” Even if he
were
Jewish, why would she become involved with an ex-convict with a high school education and a drug addiction?

“Did you ever meet Randy?”

“I saw a photo. I know he was handsome, if that's what you're getting at.”

“It was more than that. He had a magnetic personality, irresistible charm. He worked that charm on
me
a few times, and I should have known better,” she admitted with more melancholy than regret. “From my experience, Molly, people don't always behave logically when it comes to matters of the heart. Perhaps Aggie was momentarily infatuated.”

I shook my head.

“What if it was true, Molly?”

I flashed to the woman Gloria Lamont had seen sneaking into Randy's apartment. “It's not.”

“All right, it's not.” Barbara nodded. “But if it
were.
How would that make you feel?”

“Shouldn't I lie down on your couch?”

“If you prefer.” She wasn't smiling.

I twisted the tissue. “Hurt. Sad that she didn't let me help her. She probably felt very lonely, isolated.
If
it were true.”

“Do you feel responsible for Aggie's death, Molly?”

“In a way.” I told her about turning down Aggie's request to accompany her to a prayer vigil. “I had therapy after Aggie was killed. I know I couldn't have predicted what happened.”

Tell me how you feel, Molly.

I feel empty. I feel guilty. I wish I could turn back the
clock. I don't know what you want me to tell you.

Whatever you want to say. There are no right or
wrong answers, Molly. Whatever you tell me stays in
this room.

I was angry at her.

When?

That night. I knew if I'd asked her to go somewhere
with me, she would have. Anytime, anyplace. So I was
angry that she asked, because it made me feel inadequate.

That's understandable.

I envied her. I wished I could be more like her. Focused, successful.

Envy is a human emotion, Molly.

If you envy someone, you can cause the person
harm.

The evil eye? The
ayin harah
? Is that what you mean?

It's a powerful force. I read that if you envy someone, you cause that person's life to be judged, and your
own, too.

Do you think your envy caused Aggie to be judged?

I don't know.

Did your envy put the knife in the hand of the person
who stabbed her? . . .

“The police asked me about Randy after Aggie was killed,” Barbara said. “I told them he was very respectful to Aggie, that I had no reason to believe he'd killed her.”

“So there was nothing between them,” I said, vindication flushing my face.

“Not then, no. Randy was friendly to everyone—
too
friendly sometimes.” She hesitated. “But he was drawn to Aggie. I could tell from the way he looked at her, the way he reacted when she smiled at him. One time I entered her office without knocking. She was between clients and I needed a file. Randy was there. They weren't touching, but I sensed a sexual tension, as though I'd interrupted something.”

“They could have been having an intense discussion,” I insisted.

“Perhaps.” Barbara regarded me with sympathy. “This happened months before Aggie was killed, and I never saw anything between them again. I didn't tell the police. I was afraid they would twist nothing into something.”

“What about closer to the time she was killed? Was there friction between them?” I asked, moving to more comfortable ground.

“Not that I saw. But Aggie was troubled. She said she was concerned about a client, but given what you've just told me, it may have been about Randy.”

“What makes you think that?”

The therapist was studying her hands, probably deciding what, if anything, to tell me. “I caught him going through her files. She phoned me from the field. She needed an address she'd left on her desk. When I entered her office Randy was standing next to an open filing cabinet.”

I felt a prickling of interest. “What did he say?”

“He made up a silly explanation for his being there. He begged me not to tell Aggie, but of course, I did. She asked me not to tell Dr. Bramer. She wanted to do it herself. I thought Randy was just nosy. But if you're right, and he had a drug habit to support . . .”

Blackmail? “Did you tell the police?”

“I assumed Dr. Bramer would do that.” She played with the strand of pearls at her neck.

“But then the police would have asked you to confirm what happened,” I said, thinking aloud. “They would have asked you for details.”

A flush spread up her neck. We had switched roles.

“He told me he was with his sister when Aggie was killed,” Barbara said. “He had proof, but he was terrified the police wouldn't believe him, because he was an ex-convict. To me he was like a puppy that digs up the garden, always getting into mischief. He wasn't a pit bull. I didn't think he was capable of murder. And why would he kill Aggie?” Her accent had become more pronounced, her tone imploring. “She didn't say anything to you about Randy?”

The police had questioned me. I was her best friend, I would know things she hadn't told her parents. Was there a boyfriend she had dropped? A jealous rival or coworker? Had Aggie been upset about anything? Worried? Afraid of anyone? Connors had posed the same questions days ago. My answer to everything had been no.

Now I wondered. “Did you tell the police Aggie was worried about a client?”

The therapist shook her head. “They would have subpoenaed her files. Women confide their darkest secrets with the assurance that those secrets will stay inside Rachel's Tent. I couldn't subject them to a police inquiry that would violate their privacy and possibly endanger them. And what would the police find, after all?”

“What if one of Aggie's clients killed her?”

Barbara frowned. “I never believed that for a minute. Aggie had a wonderful rapport with all her clients.”

“But you said she was worried.”

“About a
client's
safety. Some of our women come from abusive relationships. Aggie asked me how far she should push a client to go to the police, whether the police could really ensure the woman's safety.”

“When was that?”

“Sometime in early July, two or three weeks before she was killed. It was after the holiday party at the Horton residence. They invite all the staff and clients twice a year. July Fourth and Christmas. Aggie was jittery at the party. She spilled food on her dress—a pastel silk, so everything showed. She was mortified. She would have gone home, but she had come with another staff member. Mrs. Horton loaned her something.”

Aggie hadn't mentioned anything about the weekend, or ruining her dress. It was the kind of thing we would have laughed about. “Was Randy there?”

“I'm sure he was. I can't recall seeing him.”

“How many clients did Aggie handle?”

“Between fifteen and twenty.” Barbara was losing patience. “I can't discuss any of them with you.”