Your Eight O'clock is Dead

by Kat Jorgensen

  “Women and children first,” I yelled.

  I was aware of someone stepping over me and running. Ah, the patient. Yeah, that should do it. My fate was sealed. If I’d just kept my mouth shut about quitting, I could have at least collected unemployment. Damn.

  This wasn’t my day, my week, or my year.

  Chapter 19

  My mouth tasted as dry as a communion wafer. But the cold compress on my forehead felt wonderful. Somehow I was lying on one of the group room sofas with a decorative pillow under my head and my feet elevated. I could hear male voices coming from the waiting room. I tried to sit up, but the room did its spinning wheel thing again, and I decided to take advantage of the couch for just a bit longer.

  “I’m going to see how she’s doing. If you know what’s good for you, Dick, you’ll cut her some slack.”

  Was that Ryder defending me?

  Ahhh, how sweet. It almost made up for the woman in the floppy hat and sunglasses. Almost.

  “I appreciate the fact that you’ve lost a valuable automobile. But bottom line, Becca isn’t responsible. She brought it back in the same condition you loaned it to her. It’s not her fault one of your patients decided to destroy it. If it hadn’t been for Becca, you’d be visiting Mr. Nightingale in the county jail instead of the psych ward. She was looking out for Daley & Palmer even under such extreme circumstances.”

  Wow, Ryder really was going to bat for me. Maybe I should cut him some slack the same way Dr. Dick better cut me some. I couldn’t make out what the doc said in response. He was using that annoying inside voice of his.

  Ryder again. “You’re making a mistake. She’s the best employee this firm has ever had. Yes, she’s a bit of a ditz, but she’s got a good heart. But go ahead and accept her resignation. I remember what it used to be like around here before you hired Becca. My guess is that’s what it’s going to be like again.”

  Ohmygod! It wasn’t just a bad memory. I had tendered my resignation. I sunk deeper into the couch and pressed the cool cloth against my face. This was it.

  If I could get to my feet, I should just pick up my purse and what little dignity I had left and leave.

  It became quiet. Too quiet. Okay, so that was a bad line from a Grade D western. But it summed up the current state of the office. I put the cloth down on the non-mar end table and slowly got to my feet, steadying myself on the furniture and the door jamb since my rubbery legs refused to cooperate.

  When I emerged into the well-lit reception area, Dr. Dick and Ryder stood, confronting each other, like two gunslingers facing off. Vaguely aware my OCD brain had locked onto a western theme, I pictured them in chaps, boots, and vests. Yup.

  Time to check me into a room adjoining Mr. Nightingale’s down at the psych unit at the hospital.

  “Becca, how are you feeling?”

  Ryder advanced towards me where I clung to the doorway. I nodded once and tried to let go of my lifeline. I couldn’t meet Dr. Dick’s gaze, so I kept my eyes on Ryder.

  He took my arm gently in his as if he were escorting an old lady across the street. Not that I thought Ryder had ever been a Boy Scout in his life. But I let him lead me to my desk chair. I dropped down into the seat, not the least ladylike in the way I did it, and let my head droop. I felt like a limp noodle. Everything happened in slow motion. It vaguely occurred to me that maybe I’d been drugged. I shook my head vigorously trying to regain my usual state of perkiness.

  “Easy does it. You’ll get whiplash. Want something to drink?”

  I nodded once in answer to Ryder’s question.

  “Be right back.”

  I heard someone moan and bolted upright when I realized the sound had come from me. Talk about your out-of-body experiences.

  “Miss Reynolds, are you all right?” The cold, clinical tones of my ex-employer registered a two on my alertness scale.

  I didn’t answer him.

  True to his word, Ryder returned and popped the top on a cold soda for me. He wrapped my fingers around the can and watched as I found my mouth and drank like a seven-day camel who had wandered the desert for fourteen.

  “Easy does it. You’ll make yourself sick. Sip. Don’t guzzle.”

  Guzzle, now there was a funny word. I put the drink down and giggled. Both men looked at me like I’d lost it. That wasn’t good considering one of them was a psychiatrist.

  I yanked open the drawer that contained my purse. With as much dignity as I could summon under the circumstances, I pushed off from the desk.

  The chair and I went flying backwards.

  Over went the chair and I found myself flat on my back with my feet pointing up. Oops. Sugar rush.

  Guess I didn’t know my own strength.

  With Ryder’s help, I struggled to my feet and righted my chair. Was that a chuckle? I cut my eyes his way. Either he’d anticipated the look or my hearing was off. Not a glimmer of amusement showed in his expression. I pulled free of his hold. “Dr. D., Ryder. It’s been real.” I held my head high, proud I was leaving on my terms. Sort of. One foot in front of the other, I told myself.

  “Miss Reynolds, where are you going?” Dr. D. raised his voice to a new, all-time high. And caught my attention. I stopped short and turned around.

  “I’m going home.” I clutched my purse tighter to my side.

  “And how are you going to get there?” Dr. D. asked.

  Well, he had me there.

  No car. The Honda was still in the shop getting a major overhaul.

  I fought back the beginnings of a new wave of panic. My chin wobbled and my eyes filled. Oh, God.

  That was all I needed.

  “Dick, you had something to tell Becca,” Ryder prompted urgently.

  The doctor spoke in his annoying therapist monotone. In my current condition, it rendered me clueless as to what he said. We were back to Wonka, Wonka.

  “Sorry, I didn’t hear you,” I stated.

  “I said, I realize the accident wasn’t your fault,” Dr. Daley shouted.

  Ooh. Now that I heard. No inside voice that time.

  “And I realize you were under a certain amount of stress when you tendered your resignation.”

  Amen to that.

  “I won’t accept your resignation. But you’re still on probation. Dr. Palmer and I will have to discuss your performance in its totality at the end of your six months.” He and Ryder stared at each other. Dr. Dick broke eye contact first. “At this point, I’m not sure the practice will survive, so your employment, all of our employment, may be a moot point.”

  Well, damn, there he went with that negativity stuff. Let’s hope he didn’t use that particular approach with his patients.

  “Did you understand what I just said, Miss Reynolds? You still have a job. At least for the next three weeks.”

  “Thank you,” I mumbled, shell-shocked. “Now, if you two don’t mind, I think I’ll go on home.” Before I passed out again.

  Ryder must have worried about the exact same thing because he slipped a hand under my elbow. “C’mon, Becca, I’ll drive you.”

  Dr. Daley looked more than a bit uncomfortable, and I braced for the next thing he was going to say.

  Like, I just gave you your job back and you’re going home? But instead, he surprised me by asking, “Do you think you could drop me by my place, as well, R. J.? I seem to be without transportation.” And he looked so sad, I found myself patting him sympathetically on the shoulder.

  Sheesh. I really did need to go home.

  Ryder dropped Dr. Dick off first, thank goodness since we accomplished the trip over there in near dead silence. Ryder tried engaging him in conversation a couple of times, but my boss answered in monosyllables. A pervasive blackness hung over the ride like we were on a short track to Hell.

  But almost as soon as Dr. Dick got out of the SUV, the mood lightened. I could breathe again without feeling like I was sucking on cotton. My head cleared and my pulse returned to a more normal and familiar beat.

  “Yo
u’re looking better.” Ryder smiled at me. I couldn’t see his eyes behind the dark glasses he wore, but there were crinkle lines around the corners of his eyes, always a good sign. “Just a friendly piece of advice. I know how much this job means to you. Try to keep a low profile for the next few weeks.”

  Like I’d been trying to keep a high profile before? I couldn’t help O’Malley dying in the office. And I couldn’t help Mr. Nightingale’s spaceship attack. “Nothing has been my fault,” I blurted out.

  “I’m aware of that. Dick and Marcy are too. But every time something bad happens that’s connected to the practice, you seem to be right there in the thick of things. It’s guilt by association.” He glanced over at me to make sure I paid attention.

  “It’s not fair.”

  “Life isn’t fair. You know that. Keep a low profile. Everything will work out.”

  I knew Ryder meant well, but I couldn’t bear one more person lecturing me. Besides, I hated Ryder treating me like a kid, and still burned from the ditz remark he’d made to Dr. Daley.

  Before we could discuss it further, we arrived at my granddad’s house. “Would you like to come in for dinner?” The offer seemed like the least I could do, although the last person I wanted Ryder around was Granddad. Goodness knows what he’d come up with to embarrass me this time as if I weren’t doing a bang-up job of it myself.

  “I’d love to,” he replied as my breathing temporarily ceased, “but I’m working late tonight.”

  For an accountant, Ryder sure worked a lot of late nights and irregular hours. The green-eyed monster inside of me roared to life. “Spending time with sunglass lady?” I blurted out.

  Oh, damn.

  To my utter shock, he didn’t take offense. “No, I’m not,” he said with surprising equanimity. “This has nothing to do with that client.” He reached past me and opened the door. “Take it easy. See you tomorrow.”

  I sighed. “Thanks for everything, Ryder.”

  He shocked me again by reaching out and stroking the back of his hand along the curve of my cheek.

  “You’re welcome. I suspect my life would be very dull if you didn’t work across the hall.”

  I couldn’t think of a thing to say other than Wonka, Wonka, Wonka. Before I could be so idiotic, I got out in a daze. With a friendly wave, he took off.

  Cool it, I warned myself.

  Ryder was a friend. Today, he’d saved my job and given me some good advice.

  It was up to me to put it to good use.

  That didn’t stop me from tracing the curve of my cheek and grinning like an idiot.

  Chapter 20

  I approached the next day with a brand new attitude, determined to succeed. And to keep that low-profile Ryder warned me about. Last night, I’d spent a quiet evening at home reflecting on the past year and a half. It had been tough to make a go of my life since the separation and divorce from Jack.

  I had been ill-prepared for the real world. The series of jobs I’d had before landing at Daley & Palmer showed me that much.

  I’d come to the conclusion that my desperation to hang onto this job wasn’t because I’d been unable to hang onto any of my previous jobs—which I hadn’t—but because it offered me a chance for me to do some good in the world.

  No matter what the psychiatrists, Ryder, or even my granddad thought of my abilities, I knew I was good with the patients. I had compassion and empathy. I had a soothing voice, when people weren’t dying on me or cars weren’t getting crushed.

  Ryder confirmed what I had suspected. Things had not been good at D & P before my employment. I should know. I’d spent the first three months trying to straighten out the billing and claims processes.

  Ditz, huh? Well, maybe so. But I was a ditz who had figured out how to ask people for money nicely and had learned how to work with the convoluted medical system our country employs, especially in the mental health field. But bringing in the money or drawing a paycheck wasn’t the ultimate issue.

  The real issue was the patients - The CLIENTS – damn, I should just tattoo it on my arm as a permanent reminder.

  I was good with them.

  Well, most of them. They liked seeing a familiar face when they came in to bare their innermost secrets and fears to the doctors. They liked having the warm touches I’d added here and there without the doctors even noticing, like the Hershey Hugs, for instance, and the current magazines with which I’d stocked the waiting room, instead of those stale and boring magazines the psychiatrists had lying around before I came.

  The clients also liked the CDs I’d chosen with them specifically in mind, playing softly in the background so their nerves weren’t jangled while they waited for their session. Many commented about how happy they were that I wasn’t playing that horrid opera music Dr. Daley favored.

  But most of all they appreciated that I took an interest in them. A personal interest. I’d become more than the office receptionist. I was their contact at Daley & Palmer. Their friend. And I took my role seriously.

  For them, as much as for me, I needed to keep out of trouble for the next three weeks. And do good. Do those little extra things that would prove to the psychiatrists that I was indispensable.

  Looking down at the patterned hall carpet and lost in thought, I almost bumped into someone and fumbled my brown bag lunch and my morning biscuit. The other person paused to admire my juggling ability. I finally had my possessions under control and glanced up.

  “Mr. Ancarrow?” I was more than a little surprised to see Robert O’Malley’s partner in the corridor leading to Daley & Palmer. To my knowledge, his name wasn’t on the books for an appointment this morning.

  “Your face is familiar, but I think you have the advantage over me.”

  “Becca. Becca Reynolds. I paid a visit to your office the other day.” I could see recognition dawning. And then I realized he wasn’t happy to see me.

  “Are you following me, Miss Reynolds?” he asked, a frown creasing his face.

  I laughed. “That’s a good one, Mr. Ancarrow. You almost had me going.”

  He seemed genuinely perplexed, and it occurred to me that maybe he wasn’t in the building to visit Daley & Palmer, after all. My curiosity roared to life. “I work here. At D & P. Daley & Palmer, remember?”

  His face relaxed. “I didn’t realize they were in this building.”

  “Right down the hall.” I pointed toward our suite and realized that if he hadn’t sought out our office that only left Ryder’s accounting firm or the temporary agency next door to us.

  Craig Ancarrow wanted to get by me. But I had the advantage of blocking his path in the narrow hallway. “Temp$ 4 Hire is a great company.” He looked bewildered. Ah-ha. So he hadn’t been to the agency for help. And he claimed he hadn’t been to D & P, either. That left Ryder. Interesting.

  “I also hear Ryder is a great accountant. Are you happy with his services? Daley & Palmer is looking around for a new firm to handle our books.” I watched his face and saw the slightest blink from his eyes before he steeled them. I had my answer. His business was with Ryder.

  “Well, good luck in your search. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have things to attend to.”

  I let him by and watched him retreat down the corridor and turn toward the exit. Curious. Ryder had never mentioned that he’d known Robert O’Malley or Craig Ancarrow. I may have to violate that low profile thing he’d recommended and ask Ryder a few questions about his clients. Not that he’d answer. But maybe I could worm a few tidbits from him.

  I reached the office and found the door unlocked with the lights on. I hesitated before going in. Ever since Mr. O’Malley’s death, I had to get past a creepy, icky feeling each time I entered the suite. I glanced nervously around as I entered and found the mysterious blonde girl occupying our couch again.

  “Well, hey there. How have you been?”

  I didn’t expect an answer, but you never knew. Our silent guest sat on the couch working a new necklace out of the most gorgeou
s blue and green glass beads. Her fingers were nimble, her gaze focused on her work. She didn’t acknowledge me, but I was getting used to that from her.

  I stashed my things, more than a little glad that it was our mystery guest I’d discovered on entry, and not another dead body. I cut the radio on to Lite 98 and Bill Bevins, Richmond’s easy listening morning disc jockey. Bill could always make me smile either with his gentle banter or his selection of music.

  Win-win all the way. Later I’d stick in one of the client CDs. But not quite yet. See how well I was doing keeping that low profile and proving myself indispensable.

  I poured water from the Diamond Springs container for both myself and the blonde and settled down at my desk to devour my biscuit before we got busy. Checking the schedule, I saw no mention of Mr. Ancarrow anywhere.

  Or our current visitor. That pretty much confirmed that Ancarrow had business with Ryder. And the pretty woman without a name, well, she was just a mystery. I’d have to find out whether either therapist was treating her and, if they weren’t, mention to them that she probably would benefit from some pro bono help. Considering our current financial crisis, I wondered if I could build a solid case for their taking on a patient—client, damn, I’d been doing so well, too—for free. And I’d have to find a way to bring Ancarrow up to Ryder. I needed answers all around.

  The young woman kept her focus on her beading work and declined my offer to share my biscuit with her with a solitary shake of her head.

  “Well, it looks like Richmond has added to its murder count.” Bill’s voice came over the airwaves. “The police just released the name of the latest victim. Thirty-one-year-old Anna Blake of Richmond’s far west end was found strangled in her home last night…”

  I choked on my food. I had to have heard Bill wrong. Sure, that’s what it was. I’d heard wrong. Bill had said some other poor person’s name and in my current state of concentration on Ancarrow and the O’Malley murder, my brain had simply supplied a name I knew. Phew.

  That was close. I swallowed a big swig of water to clear the last of the biscuit crumbs from my windpipe. Reaching for a tissue from a box I kept nearby for the patients, I wiped my eyes.