CHAPTER NINE
A
strid led me to
a door tucked in between the kitchen and her office. I could hear the furnace humming
to life just beyond. Unlike the cheap doors that were used elsewhere, this door
was of solid wood. Pulling a jangling batch of keys off a belt clip, Astrid
unlocked it. Inside, a furnace did indeed take up most of the space, but a good
share of the wall housed an electrical panel that looked like a NASA-level circuit
board. Astrid waved a hand at it.
“This is what a lot of our donations go for. It’s a good
system, but it needs updating. With all that’s happened, I’m hoping the board
will see . . . Well, never mind.” She shut the door again, firmly, and made a
show of locking it back up. Then she continued on to her own office, using the
keys again.
I followed. The whole purpose of Astrid’s domain, about the
size of a walk-in closet, seemed to be to house the computer that sat on the
desk. Astrid had to squeeze sideways between the wall and desk to take her
chair behind it. A clear swath, butt-high, on the dingy paint tracked her
route.
“Apparently this is where the rest of the donations go,” I
said, indicating the computer
“It’s all part of the security system. The video cameras
around the property feed into this computer and record all movement on the
perimeter. I can access the system for remote viewing, if need be, and, of
course, so can the police. When it’s set, an alarm will sound if the perimeter
is breached. What we really need, though, is a silent alarm system so if an
intruder gains access and it develops into a hostage situation, we can alert
the police.”
“What if they cut the power?” There was no extra chair so,
since we were getting so chatty, I perched on the corner of the desk. Regina
had described some aspects of the shelter’s security precautions when she’d
dragged me here months ago, but not to this degree. She’d also made me participate
in a safety drill, which I’d hated. I didn’t remind Astrid, though; I needed
her to forget I was a different kind of intruder, and letting her show off her
expertise was making good headway.
“Most of our utilities are buried, but we also have a backup
battery as well. Plus any cut wires instantly set the alarm off and notifies
the police and fire department.”
“Sounds pretty elaborate. Is that why you don’t worry about
keeping the shelter a secret?”
“More like the other way around, really. It’s nearly
impossible to keep a shelter’s location confidential for very long, especially
in a small city like Chippewa Falls. Too many women and their children come
through the doors, the police and fire departments are all in the loop, and
eventually any repair work means we have to have construction workers or
plumbers or whatever here. This way, we’re known to the community. In fact, some
of our neighbors help keep watch on our ladies. I’ve had several of them call
the cops on strange cars or men who seem to be lurking. A lot of the problems
get handled before the assholes even get on the premises.
“Besides,” she went on, “why should the women have to sneak
around like they’re the problem? Most of their abusers are cowards and bullies who
aren’t going to risk having witnesses for their actions. This way, we don’t
have to keep our offices in a separate facility, and we can openly educate the
community on domestic violence issues.”
“Most of the abusers,” I repeated. “But not all. What about
the ones who aren’t going to be stopped by a bunch of women? A neighborhood
watch might not be enough.” Having been the victim of a stalker a few months
ago, I knew the risk these women were taking. Knew it
very
well.
Astrid sighed. “There are pros and cons to both approaches. If
it were up to me, I’d have gone with keeping the place secret. They just went
with what seemed the most practical at the time.”
I noted the ‘I-they’ comment.
“But I understand your concerns,” she continued. “Let me
assure you, I take my job very seriously. At any rate, I keep them safe here at
the shelter. The problems start when they go out into the real world, don’t
they?”
Astrid’s eyes were soft and gentle, telling me she knew
about my past.
Enough bonding.
“Did the cameras record Regina’s fall?”
Astrid stiffened, the tenderness slipping off her face like
it had been greased. “No. The cameras aren’t. . .well, never mind. What a
morbid
thought.”
She stood abruptly, shoving past my knees and out the door
in a heartbeat. She held it open, waves of disapproval radiating off her body.
“I’m sorry. That was tactless.” Meekly, I followed her into
the dim hallway. “Regina told me to watch out for irritability or sudden
outbursts of anger after . . . You know.” Tactless
and
heartless. I had
no compunction about using Regina’s name or Astrid’s awareness of my history to
my advantage. Not under these circumstances. And Astrid would be well-versed in
the symptoms of posttraumatic stress disorder, the changes that occur after
one’s very life has been threatened. She also knew about my former boyfriend’s
death. I’d talked about it one night, months ago, when Regina had dragged me to
a group here.
It must have worked. Astrid calmed a bit, the blaze dropping
from her eyes.
Pressing ahead, I pulled the client list she’d given me the
day before from my purse. “You said that this is Regina’s current client list.
Does that mean that these women are still in residence?” I already knew the
answer from my file review yesterday, but I needed to re-engage her.
She took the list, scanning it. “Yes, well, at least most of
them are. These two—” she pointed at two names—“were discharged a few weeks
ago. They were meeting with Regina once a week for outpatient counseling. I
don’t see Karissa here, though. Maybe because she left. She took off with her kids
the Sunday before last. I’m worried about her. She’d only been here a few days,
and I don’t think she was at all ready to leave.”
“A week ago Sunday? The day after Regina’s accident?” I
asked.
Before she could answer, a voice from the kitchen said, “Astrid?
Who are you talking to?”
We both jumped.
A tall, Junoesque figure stood shadowed in the kitchen
doorway, a cup of coffee steaming in her hand.
“Good morning, Lachlyn,” I said, walking forward. My heart
thumped as hard as if I was facing an IRS auditor. In fact, that would be
preferable.
The figure stepped back as I approached, moving from the
dark hall into the morning light of the kitchen. Clotilde—not Lachlyn.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Clotilde. I thought you were—”
“Are you here to meet with Lachlyn?” she interrupted in a
distinct, your-explanations-mean-
nothing
-to-me tone.
Almost hurt my feelings.
“Not today, I’m afraid. I’m going to give her a call and set
something up. Speaking of appointments, do you know where Regina’s calendar is?
Nobody seems to know what kind of system she used to keep track.”
We eye-dueled for several moments before Clotilde smiled and
said, “No, I certainly don’t know where Regina’s calendar is. Astrid? Do you?”
Astrid shook her head, looking as if she wanted the floor to
swallow her up.
“I’ve already asked Astrid. She couldn’t tell me anything,
either.” I tossed a bone to the woman, not wanting her to get in trouble for
talking with me. I really wanted that calendar, though. For one thing, all I
had to go on regarding Regina’s client list was Clotilde’s word, and I
certainly didn’t trust her. No one had mentioned this Karissa, and her name
wasn’t on the client list that I still clutched in my sweaty hand. There was no
way she would be included on the closed file list if she hadn’t left the
shelter until the day after Regina died. In fact, it was entirely possible that
Karissa, having been at the shelter that night, would have information about
the incident.
I needed to find her.
I looked up to find Clotilde staring at me. I shuddered,
hoping she couldn’t follow my thoughts.
It depended, however, on just how much she had overheard.
CHAPTER TEN
A
s soon as I got
back to the clinic I confirmed that Karissa and her children weren’t on the
roster of clients that the shelter had provided me. The question, of course, was
why not? I checked the stash of files that Regina had appropriated and
established Karissa whoever wasn’t included there either.
I really needed Regina’s calendar, which I hoped would
contain the facts about Regina’s clients. It would help if I knew whether she
carried a hard copy, such as a day planner, or kept track by computer. A closer
search of her office didn’t turn anything up, but I hadn’t really expected it
to. I’d gone through her papers very carefully and had been working in her
office almost daily since accepting the executor’s responsibilities.
But I hadn’t been to her house. A sudden fear that Clotilde
or Lachlyn had already gone through Regina’s home made my stomach cramp. There
were so many knots to unravel that I was certainly overlooking some obvious
ones. I searched through the paperwork until I found Emma’s phone number, then
held my breath through several rings, trying to improvise a coherent message in
case her voice mail picked up.
My luck was in. Emma answered and agreed to meet me at
Regina’s after she got off work Friday afternoon. I didn’t have any clients scheduled
after three that day so that worked well for me. She asked if I’d mind picking
up a box of Regina’s personal things from the shelter if she called them to
give permission.
No. No, I didn’t mind at all.
Thursday morning unfolded into one of those crisp autumn
days that made me wish I could get out to the woods. Since I wasn’t seeing
clients today, I decided to go casual and wear my denim jacket and the
Timberlands I’d gotten on sale last spring at Gander Mountain. At least I could
look hiker-esque.
I’d tried calling Lachlyn after my AA meeting the night
before but only managed to get her voice mail. I told it that I’d be stopping
by this morning to pick up Regina’s personal items and hoped I could get some
time with the files. I sounded so submissive I almost puked.
Even if Lachlyn wasn’t available, I planned to confront Clotilde
about Karissa’s missing files. I’d gone back and forth trying to decide if
she’d overheard Astrid. Eventually I decided it didn’t matter either way. If
she hadn’t heard us, it was only a matter of time until Astrid filled her in. If
she had, she and Lachlyn would probably amp up the resistance to my presence.
Either way, I was going to need Karissa’s file and contact information. Better
yet, I was legally entitled to it.
Before heading over to the shelter, I met with Bob to give
him an update and ask if he knew anything about Regina’s shelter calendar.
He denied knowing anything—which explained a lot—and gave me
an impatient, finger-rolling gesture telling me to get on with it. I debated
showing him a different sort of finger gesture, but refrained.
Hannah and I had scheduled the second grief session for the
coming Tuesday, even though only a few of Regina’s clients had committed to
attending. Of those, several would probably be no-shows. It was a start, anyway.
Others had decided they’d feel more comfortable in a one-to-one setting, and
I’d been scheduling meetings throughout the week. Unfortunately, even more had
decided to discontinue therapy altogether. Almost all agreed to return if
needed, but I didn’t have an established relationship with any of them. Therefore,
there was no way of knowing which were close enough to the end of therapy to
pick up the pieces and move forward on their own and which were tucking their
issues back under the rock of denial until the next crisis overtook their life.
In other words, who was bullshitting and who wasn’t.
Hearing how many clients had dropped out of therapy clearly
annoyed Bob, and we shared a moment of helplessness that therapists experience
when a client’s fears draw him away from confronting the pain in his life. For
the first time, I almost liked Bob.
Of course he had to ruin it.
What I’d interpreted as concern for the clients’ welfare was
actually bitching about the drop in revenue. What a nub. As soon as I realized
my error, the desire to thump him with a blunt object rose like a phoenix from
the ashes of my naiveté.
I left for the shelter.
Lachlyn met me at the door and informed me, reluctantly that
she had time to supervise while I plowed through the files. Well, actually she
said she had time to review them with me, but we both knew what she meant.
Perhaps they’d decided that the best way to get rid of me was to let me do my
job.
Sillies.
I mentioned Emma’s request for her sister’s personal effects,
but Lachlyn seemed to have no problem with that. She pulled out the same stack
of files that I’d looked at two days ago. I shuffled through them quickly,
looking to see if they’d added Karissa’s. Nope. I worked for several minutes
gathering information from the other files while I pondered what to do.
“I believe several of these women are still in residence
here?” I asked.
Lachlyn took the list again and placed check marks next to
four names. “These women are.”
“Have they been reassigned a therapist?”
“Of course. Clotilde and I already adjusted our schedules
for now, although we’re hoping to have an intern this semester. I doubt if
we’ll assign any of Regina’s clients to her, though. They’ve been through
enough instability as it is.”
Lachlyn seemed unusually forthcoming this morning. I didn’t
trust it.
“So where is Karissa’s file?” I asked.
Her face barely quivered, but her breath quickened and she
paused several beats too long to be natural.
“It isn’t there? I guess you’ll have to ask Clotilde.”
At least she hadn’t insulted me by asking who I meant, but she
didn’t look surprised either, which made me certain that Clotilde had filled
her in.
“Is she in?”
Lachlyn glanced up at the wall clock: 10:02. “I’m sure she
is, but I don’t think—”
Before Lachlyn could voice her thought, I was speed-walking
to Clotilde’s office. I pushed the door open, hoping to startle her. She sat at
her desk working with an accounting file opened on the computer. She tilted the
screen away from my view with a scowl.
“Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?”
“Oh, gosh,” I said, smiling. “I just figured you for an
open-door kind of person.” If I were ever to stop, I would miss lying almost as
much as drinking.
She smiled back—if gritted teeth counted—and folded her
hands in fake patience. I bypassed the wobbly chair and leaned my butt-cheek on
the edge of her desk, just enough to be obnoxious but not enough to be called
on it. My inner bitch was amused.
“One of Regina’s clients was in residence when Regina died.
Her name is Karissa. She left the day after. What happened to her file?”
“I have it,” Clotilde answered without noticeable pause. One
corner of her lip twitched, however, a fleeting sign of contempt, and her hands
squeezed sharply together as though she’d had a brief yet satisfying fantasy
about strangling me. I scooted my butt two inches farther onto her desk just to
egg her on a bit.
“Any reason it wasn’t included with Regina’s other clients?”
“She left abruptly, without a forwarding address. We have no
way of contacting her, so it didn’t make sense for her to be included.”
I let her words hang in the air between us—a therapeutic
technique normally used to allow the speaker a moment of insight. Or, in this
case, to emphasize how ridiculous she sounded.
After a long, prickly silence, she flicked her eyebrows once
in annoyance and pulled a manila folder from the bottom desk drawer. “If you
want to waste your time, go right ahead. In my experience, these women respond
better when their rights to seek or decline therapy are respected. Chasing
after them can be dangerous. I don’t advise it.”
“
Dangerous
?” Maybe my intrusive butt had pushed her over
the edge.
“For them, of course.”
“Of course.”