Mind Games

by Hilary Norman

  Grace nodded, bit her lip, then took a deep breath.

  ‘I do have something else I think you should know about,’ she said.

  Wagner checked his Cartier wristwatch. ‘I have a lunch meeting in twenty minutes.’

  ‘It’s very important,’ Grace told him. ‘Possibly crucial to the case.’

  His mouth pursed and he nodded. ‘Shoot,’ he said.

  She told him, as concisely as possible, about her still-hypothetical, still-off-the-planet, theory about John Broderick.

  ‘It’s certainly a fascinating notion,’ he said, once he’d finished writing notes on his yellow legal pad.

  Grace’s heart began to sink.

  ‘I take it there’s no hard evidence to support your theory that Broderick didn’t die in that storm?’

  ‘None except that his body was never found,’ she replied. ‘I was hoping you might ask one of your investigators to check into his last weeks, maybe even hours.’

  ‘We might do that,’ Wagner said. ‘I’ll certainly be raising it with my colleagues.’ He paused. ‘You have to admit your suggestion that he’s waited almost ten years to resurrect himself in order to murder a bunch of people and frame his own daughter is pretty far-fetched?’

  Grace gritted her teeth and ploughed on. ‘It may sound far-fetched at first hearing, Mr Wagner,’ she told him. ‘But we’re talking about a man proven to be possessive, obsessive, jealous and cruel.’

  ‘Unfortunately, the case against him never came to a hearing stage.’

  ‘It did up to a point,’ Grace pointed out. ‘Marie Broderick did get a court order to stop him seeing Cathy.’ She continued as if he hadn’t interrupted. ‘We know Broderick was an unethical physician and an immoral man who forced medication on his family in order to punish, control and manipulate them. Now just supposing he didn’t die nine years ago, don’t you have to consider him the most likely suspect?’

  Wagner scribbled a few more notes on his pad. ‘You know, even if we don’t manage to find anything to support your theory, this information may help Cathy,’ he said, thoughtfully, ‘though perhaps not in the way you’re hoping.’

  Grace’s heart sank further, to someplace below her stomach.

  ‘If nothing else,’ Wagner went on, ‘this should at least strengthen our chance of pulling off an insanity plea. We can argue that all she’d been through in her young life just drove her right over the edge.’

  ‘But that’s the last thing I’m saying.’

  Wagner glanced at his watch again, and began to stack the three neat piles of paperwork on his desk into one pile – the clearest message yet that their meeting was drawing to an end. ‘I’m grateful to you, Dr Lucca, for what you’ve told me. We’ll certainly be checking into Broderick’s death. If we find even a scrap of something useful, I can assure you we’ll jump on it with everything we’ve got.’

  ‘Thank you for that,’ Grace said, despondently.

  ‘Will you do something for me, doctor? If we don’t come up with an alternative suspect?’

  ‘If I can.’

  ‘Think about – just consider – helping us, down the road, to persuade Cathy to go with an insanity plea.’ Wagner paused, his eyes serious. ‘I know it sounds like a negative approach, and I can see how it would go against the grain for you – and, I promise you, it would only be a last resort. But just keep in mind that at the end of the day, it may make all the difference to getting Cathy out of jail.’

  Grace felt like crying as she walked out of that perfect office. The worst of it, she decided, getting into the elevator, was that with Cathy in such poor shape, and with the evidence so heavily weighted against her, she thought she could almost see Jerry Wagner’s point-of-view.

  Almost.

  Sam’s call that morning had been the high spot of Grace’s day. She had found the book for Saul a week earlier in Barnes & Noble in Coral Gables and had held back for a few moments, worrying about Judy Becket’s feelings – but the book had been particularly handsome, and Grace liked the idea of giving some kind of keepsake, so she’d gone ahead, sent it to Sam and left the final decision to him.

  ‘It’s a wonderful gift,’ he’d told her on the phone. ‘Much too generous, but very, very kind.’

  ‘I liked it,’ Grace had said, ‘though it did cross my mind afterwards that Saul would probably have preferred something a little cooler.’

  ‘No way,’ Sam had put her straight. ‘He’s going to love it.’

  ‘You don’t think it’s inappropriate for me to send a gift?’

  ‘The only thing that’s inappropriate, Grace, is that you should have been put in a position where you have to think twice about it.’

  That was when he’d told her about the quiet way they’d decided to organize the barmitzvah, and when he’d asked if she would like to come to Golden Beach Temple on Saturday morning and to stay for kiddush afterward.

  ‘I don’t know, Sam,’ Grace had said, uncertainly.

  ‘You don’t know if you can come, or if you want to come, or you don’t know because of what my mother said last time she saw you?’

  ‘Not guilty on the first two,’ she’d said, grinning into the phone.

  ‘My mother will be too busy being scared in case Saul screws up and being proud when he doesn’t, and being happy because Dad’s there to share it with her, even to notice who else is there.’

  ‘I just don’t want to spoil the day for her, Sam.’

  ‘What about my day?’ he’d asked.

  ‘I don’t want to spoil your day either.’

  ‘So you’ll come?’

  Grace had still been smiling when she’d put down the phone.

  Chapter Thirty

  SATURDAY, MAY 2, 1998

  She had been to temple a few times in her life, all of them since she and Claudia had moved to Florida. Friends’ weddings, a patient’s batmitzvah – and Grace had attended a Passover seder that still ranked with her as a warm and happy memory. But Saul Becket’s barmitzvah was her first, and from the moment Sam’s young brother got up there and Grace heard his halting, semi-broken voice singing those ancient, to her incomprehensible, words, she felt transported. The notion that with this rite of passage a boy moved into manhood had always struck her as fanciful, mostly because it was, from her standpoint, impossible. Not that she hadn’t seen children flung headlong into maturity almost overnight, but that had always been because some terrible adversity or trauma had catapulted them out of childhood. A ritual in a place of worship, followed most often by a party of some kind, was not, thank God, in the same league.

  And yet, as she saw David and Judy Becket’s younger son standing up there between the rabbi and the cantor, his prayer shawl over his narrow shoulders, his face so earnest, his whole bearing probably eight million miles away from how Saul Becket usually comported himself, Grace was intensely struck by the solemnity of the event. Even if this so-called man turned back into a regular thirteen-year-old kid within an hour or so, she found herself suddenly understanding that this experience would remain with him, within him, rounding the angular youthful features that lived inside the boy, and forming a strong spiritual springboard for the rest of his life.

  It was a reform temple, with men and women sitting together, which Grace found warmer and more natural from her perspective. To her left, an old lady sucked peppermints and followed every Hebrew word in her prayerbook, her frail right index finger tracing the letters, her mouth moving silently as she read. To her right, a girl of about eight shifted restlessly in her seat and did her best to involve her sister – a year or two older and determined at least to seem as if she was following the service – in some sort of a game to pass the time. Grace understood how she felt. She remembered interminable hours spent in church back in her early Chicago childhood, while the old Latin prayers and rituals had flowed over her head. She remembered being chastised for daydreaming by her parents, for in those early days Frank Lucca had still found his way into church on a regular basis – a
nd Grace supposed he might have spent many hours in the confessional for years after that, probably seeking absolution for his crimes against her sister. Except, of course, that absolution could only be given if the confessor was determined not to sin again, and if Grace knew Frank better than that, she was pretty sure that God did, in which case it was only a matter of time before hell-fire got around to consuming him.

  She had taken a seat about a third from the rear, well away from the Becket family. Under other circumstances, Grace would have enjoyed nothing more than walking right up to David – who had, being the stubborn man he was, insisted on leaving his wheelchair at the entrance – and letting him know how very glad she was to see him again, but she had resolved not to cause Judy Becket even a moment’s discomfort during the service. Despite her good intentions, however, about a half-minute after Sam had been called up to read from the Torah, Judy swivelled around and met her eyes, and Grace felt almost as if the other woman was piercing what she had hoped was an impenetrable mask of calm, uninvolved pleasure. Maybe, Grace thought, Judy could sense the effect that Sam’s remarkable voice, so deep and rich and effortlessly melodic, was having upon her. Maybe Judy Becket knew, in that brief moment, that Grace’s involvement with him was deepening way beyond merely professional, and maybe, too, that troubled her.

  ‘Mazeltov, Saul,’ Grace said to him afterward at the kiddush in the hall attached to the temple, shaking his hand. ‘I thought you were great, though I’m afraid I didn’t understand much.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ he told her, then grinned. ‘Neither did I.’

  ‘You don’t have a drink, Grace,’ Sam said, coming up behind them. ‘Let me get you something.’

  ‘I can’t stay,’ she told him quickly.

  ‘You have to take a drink with us for luck,’ Sam said.

  He brought her a glass of kosher wine, and she drank a toast to Saul.

  ‘I loved it,’ she said to Sam. ‘I mean, I really enjoyed it.’

  ‘How’d I do?’

  ‘Very impressive, I thought.’ She smiled up at him. ‘Not that I’m exactly an expert.’

  ‘I’m glad you came, Grace.’

  ‘Me, too.’

  She saw Judy Becket coming their way. David, back in his chair, was still at the far end of the hall. Grace tensed, wanting to avoid the slightest unpleasantness.

  ‘I really do have to go, Sam.’

  Judy was upon them. She was wearing navy blue, a dress and jacket, with white piping around the borders of the jacket, repeated in her wide-brimmed hat.

  ‘Dr Lucca,’ she said, looking elegant and at ease. ‘How kind of you to come.’

  Grace put out her hand, wished her mazeltov and told her how fine she thought Saul had been. Judy’s grip was firm and calm, and her eyes met Grace’s evenly as she thanked her. Grace felt more than a touch of admiration, together with regret for the bad start their relationship had been dealt.

  ‘I was just telling Sam that I have to leave.’

  ‘What a pity,’ Judy said, quietly. ‘Don’t let me keep you.’ She turned away and moved back into the crowd. Grace looked at Sam, saw the anger in his eyes, reached out and briefly squeezed his hand. ‘It’s okay,’ she said, softly. ‘Don’t get upset.’

  ‘She keeps this up for too long,’ he said, ‘I’ll be telling her what I think.’

  Grace smiled. ‘Give her some time.’

  ‘You have to stay and see Dad before you leave, Grace.’

  She glanced across to where Sam’s father sat surrounded by a cluster of affectionate-looking well-wishers, and saw that Judy was back by his side.

  ‘Not today, Sam. Just give him my love – I’ll see him soon.’

  She gave him no more chance to argue, just kissed his cheek, told him again how glad she had been to be there, and slipped quietly out of the hall. Back in the Mazda, she took a few moments to calm down, turning on the air-conditioning, switching her cellular phone back on, trying not to dwell too long on all the increasingly complicated feelings that Sam Becket was stirring up in her.

  The message icon was on display. Glad for the distraction, Grace pushed the buttons for retrieval and, a few seconds later, heard Claudia’s voice.

  ‘Grace, it’s me. I’m sorry to have to leave a message this way, but I don’t know what else to do.’ Pause. ‘Papa called me,’ she said. ‘Mama’s gone.’

  Grace – having gone home to pick up Harry – was jumpy on the drive down to Islamorada. She knew it was the news affecting her, probably combined with the potent mix of emotion that the barmitzvah and kiddush had stirred up in her, but two or three times on the journey she had the uneasy sense of being watched again – the same kind of feeling she’d experienced in Saks two weeks ago when she’d thought, for just a moment, that it had been Cathy watching her. It had been nothing then, and there was no one tailing her today, either. She checked a few times in her rear-view mirror, and the car behind her for a long while was a small VW being driven by an old man, and then there was a blue truck with a youngish woman at the wheel. Grace shook herself out of it, told Harry that she was getting paranoid, and he wasn’t to worry about her because they said that was one of the things that happened to psychologists over time.

  They were at the Brownley house by mid-afternoon. Daniel had just gotten back, too, from some business in Tampa, and Mike and Robbie were on their way home, being brought by a friend’s mother.

  Claudia was putting on a brave face, keeping busy in the kitchen, telling Daniel she didn’t need help, telling him to go upstairs, take a shower and relax a while and leave her to put together a snack, but inside Grace knew she was a mess.

  ‘He’s called three times,’ Claudia said as she sliced cheese, while Harry and Sadie, the dachshund, hung around waiting for pieces of food to fall down. ‘He wants us to come home for the funeral – he keeps saying we have to make things right between us.’

  ‘Words,’ Grace said.

  ‘He sounds as if he means it, Grace.’

  ‘Sure he does. He was always able to do that when it suited him.’ Grace took a kitchen knife and stabbed at a large red pepper. ‘He’s pushing your buttons, Claudia.’

  ‘Don’t you want to go back for the funeral?’ Claudia asked softly.

  ‘Want to?’ Grace put down the knife. ‘Of course I don’t want to. I don’t want to go back to Chicago, I don’t want to see Frank, and I certainly don’t want to watch my mother being put into the ground and have to deal with all those emotions.’ She sighed. ‘But I guess I’m going to do it just the same.’

  ‘Thank God,’ Claudia said and slumped on to one of her stools. ‘I was so scared you were going to say no, and I might have to go back alone.’

  ‘I’d never let you do that.’

  A shadow of a smile tugged at her sister’s mouth. ‘I guess I knew that.’

  Grace took Claudia’s hand, drew her off the stool and over to the kitchen table. They both sat down, still holding hands.

  ‘Poor Ellen,’ Grace said. Suddenly, she realized that she didn’t even know exactly what had killed her. ‘Did Frank say what happened? I mean, was it the cancer? I thought he said they’d caught it all.’

  ‘Heart attack,’ Claudia told her. ‘He said it was very sudden. There was no warning. One minute she was there, the next she was gone.’

  ‘Better for her,’ Grace said, softly.

  ‘It must have been a big shock for Papa,’ Claudia said.

  The bigger the better, Grace thought.

  ‘I wish it had been him,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t say that, Grace.’

  ‘Why not? You know how I feel.’ Grace paused. ‘At least she doesn’t have to live with him anymore. That’s something.’ Claudia’s dark eyes filled. ‘I guess it is.’

  ‘Oh, sweetheart.’ Grace got up and put her arms around Claudia’s shoulders. ‘You cry – you let it out.’

  For a moment, Claudia drew back a little and looked up into Grace’s face. ‘What about you? Don’t you want to
cry too?’

  ‘No,’ Grace said, and pulled her closer again. ‘Not yet anyway.’

  ‘How do you feel?’ Claudia asked against her shoulder.

  ‘I don’t know, Claudia.’

  It was the truth. Grace didn’t know how she felt. She couldn’t seem to feel anything much. Oh, she understood the reasons behind that all too well. Denial. Blocking. All the usual stuff she’d spouted for so many years to and about patients. That didn’t help her now.

  Not for the first time, Grace was aware that her situation was far more complex than Claudia’s. Her sister was the victim – the more obvious victim, at least – of both their parents. Of Frank, physically, and of Ellen, his accomplice through her silence. Claudia was entitled to hold on to her hate and fear, Grace felt strongly. Claudia ought, by rights, to have been the one not wanting to go back for the funeral – and she sure as hell didn’t have to consider going for Frank’s sake. But it was different for Grace. She had never actually been abused. Her personal suffering had come from seeing what Claudia had gone through, from the guilt she herself had felt about being spared, from the atmosphere of misery, rage and fear that permeated their childhood home. That was all Grace had had to get over after they’d left Chicago, while Claudia had needed to get past years of terror, shame and betrayal. And that was why Grace still felt thrust now, after all those years, into the position of having to make all the decisions about their level of participation in Ellen Lucca’s funeral arrangements and their father’s future.

  ‘There are a lot of things happening now,’ Grace said later after dinner, once the boys had taken Harry and Sadie up to bed and the three adults could finally talk in peace, ‘that I never thought would happen.’

  ‘Such as?’ Daniel asked. They were out on the deck, citronella candles flickering all around to ward off the mosquitoes. Daniel had opened a good bottle of Chianti, and all three of them had by now drunk more than they were accustomed to.

  ‘Frank, the bully, begging us to come back when he first told us Ellen was sick.’ Grace paused for a second, conscious that it was probably the wine loosening her tongue. ‘The way my feelings haven’t changed at all, about him, especially – but about Ellen, too.’