To Coach a Killer

by Victoria Laurie

  Books by Victoria Laurie

  COACHED TO DEATH

  TO COACH A KILLER

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  To Coach a Killer

  VICTORIA LAURIE

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 by Victoria Laurie

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2020935639

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-2034-4

  First Kensington Hardcover Edition: September 2020

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2038-2 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-2038-5 (ebook)

  Chapter 1

  Gilley wiped his eyes as he stepped into the office. I pretended not to notice. Fluffing a pillow on the love seat opposite my chair, I worked to appear busy while he pulled himself together.

  Finally, Gilley cleared his throat and said, “You look nice.”

  I glanced up and saw the pain in his eyes and it made my own eyes mist. Still, I forced a smile to my lips and said, “Thank you, lovey. You’re looking pretty smokin’ hot yourself.”

  Gilley swiveled his torso in a way that told me he was pleased I’d noticed his layered sweater ensemble and skinny jeans, but then an awkward silence fell between us.

  I decided to call out the elephant in the room. “Did Michel get to the airport on time?”

  Gil swallowed hard. “He did.”

  I walked over and took up his hand. “A month isn’t that long, you know.”

  Gil’s chin dropped to his chest and he shrugged. “I know. It’s just hard watching him get on another flight for another far-off destination when he was only home for two and a half months.”

  I squeezed his hand. “I know, sweetie. What can I do for you?”

  Gil shook his head sadly. “Nothing, Cat. But thank you.”

  I tilted my head sideways to try and make eye contact. “Really? Nothing? Not even a little retail therapy?”

  Gilley sighed. “Maybe later. Right now I only want to sit at my desk and work on that e-mail blast for you.”

  Gilley was helping me with a marketing campaign for the life-coaching business I’d started shortly after selling off my own mega-successful marketing firm, finalizing a divorce, and relocating to the Hamptons from Andover, Massachusetts, to be closer to my twin sons, Matt and Mike—who’d chosen boarding school over joint custody. A decision on their part that continues to break my heart. But I’d never tell them that.

  Still, relocating to East Hampton had been a good decision, even if it had gotten off to a rather difficult start. I’d built myself a big, beautiful house—nicknamed Chez Cat, and a charming guesthouse, Chez Kitty—where two of my dearest friends in the world, Gilley Gillespie and his husband, Michel, had moved in after selling their ridiculously expensive place in Manhattan.

  Initially, Gilley and Michel had only planned on staying a few months while they searched for a more affordable apartment in the city, but as time wore on, and Michel’s reputation for being an outstanding fashion photographer took off—he’s in high demand from Vogue, Elle, and Harper’s Bazaar—it became clear that Gilley and I needed each other to combat the loneliness of my empty nest, and his constantly traveling husband.

  So we settled into a routine; Gilley became my assistant and helped me launch my newfound purpose of becoming East Hampton’s premiere life coach . . . which was getting off to a much slower start than I’d originally anticipated five months earlier when I’d first hung out my new professional shingle.

  “How’s that coming along, Gilley?” I asked, referring to the e-mail blast, which I hoped might spark up some business.

  “Good,” he replied. “I should have some copy for you to look at by the time you finish with your client this morning.”

  I rubbed my hands together eagerly. Finally! After nearly a month of radio silence I had a brand new client to focus on and parcel out some of my sage direction for the lost soul who needed it.

  With a glance at my watch, I noted that said client—Willem Entwistle—would be here any minute.

  “Perfect,” I told Gil, and turned toward my chair, which was set in the middle of a large, open space in what served as my office.

  I’d first decided to hang my shingle in an older building with a ton of character, but not a lot of commercial appeal, until I’d purchased the building and subsequently poured a ton of money into renovating it. Luckily, the renovations had turned out fabulously, and the entire building was fully rented with professional tenants who paid their rents on time and seemed to keep mostly to themselves.

  It’s probably what I liked most about the building, in fact; it was superbly quiet. Especially the third floor, where an accountant and an import/export merchant worked.

  Of course, that could be due to the fact that the import/export merchant was rarely in residence. In fact, he hadn’t been to his office in the Hamptons—at least as near as I could tell—in over three months. Something that troubled me quite a bit, actually, but, like Gilley, I was trying hard this morning not to dwell on topics that made me feel sad.

  As I sat down in the chair opposite the couch, I inhaled deeply, held it for a moment, then let it out very slowly. I did that two more times and felt ready to face any challenge.

  In hindsight, perhaps I should’ve taken a few more deep breaths.

  Like fifty.

  At promptly ten a.m., the main door to my office opened, and over the top of Gilley’s desk I saw someone enter who almost appeared to be walking in on his knees, he was so low to the ground.

  It took me a full minute to realize that the person wasn’t on his knees. He was walking. At full height.

  Gilley looked up from his computer and did a double take. He then shoved the heel of his hand into his mouth and tried to stifle a startled giggle.

  He failed, miserably.

  I stood up and rushed over to the desk. “Hello,” I said, subconsciously bending at the waist toward the stranger, who was all of four and a half feet tall, and trying to ignore Gilley. “May I help you?”

  The stranger squared his shoulders, but a sheen of perspiration glinted off his forehead. Taking my outstretched hand, he said, “Hello. I’m Willem. I have an appointment for ten a.m.”

  His palm was quite sweaty, and I felt my face flush, both at the embarrassment of having my assistant lose it in front of Willem, and for the fact that I’d once hired a crew of little people to dress up like cupids and dangle out of two pear trees at my sister’s wedding (which, not coincidentally, had ended in disaster). The shame I’d felt these few years later at my insensitivity caught up with me as I shook Willem
’s sweaty palm.

  “Wonderful to meet you, Willem,” I gushed, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. “I’m Catherine Cooper. Your life coach.”

  By this time, Gilley had recovered himself enough to look quite contrite, but I’d still have words with him later. I was furious that he’d so obviously insulted my client.

  Willem shook my hand, and his gaze nervously darted around the room. I felt terrible that he’d come into my office for his first session and had been made to feel uncomfortable. “Can I offer you coffee, water, or another beverage?” I asked, waving my hand to indicate the seating area.

  “Do you have any herbal tea?”

  I nodded toward Gilley and narrowed my eyes to let him know that he was in trouble. “Gilley, would you please prepare a cup of herbal tea for Mr. Entwistle?”

  “Right away!” Gilley said, trying to cover for his earlier insult. Jumping up from his chair and hurrying over to the counter where we kept our beverage selection, he pulled out the drawer for the tea and said, “We have chai, cinnamon, ginger, and . . .”

  Gilley paused while he rooted around in the tray looking for other flavors.

  “Any chamomile?” Willem asked.

  Gil frowned. “No, sorry, we’re a little short.”

  My eyes widened.

  So did Gilley’s. He rushed to fill in the sudden awkward silence. “I . . . I . . . I mean we don’t have any. Not that you’re short—we’re short.... Out. We’re out. Of chamomile.”

  Gilley’s face was flushed bright red, and probably mirrored my own.

  Willem, however, seemed to find Gil’s sudden embarrassment funny. He cracked a tiny smile and said, “Cinnamon.”

  Gilley nodded like an overly enthused bobblehead before turning away to make the tea.

  Meanwhile, Willem and I sat down opposite each other, giving me the chance to fully take him in.

  He was an interesting character, which had nothing to do with his being a little person, although, perhaps that did make him a tad more compelling. His face was quite handsome, fairly square with a prominent jaw, which was covered by a well-trimmed dark brown beard and mustache, but his forehead—which was also quite prominent—revealed that he spent a good deal of time with a furrowed brow as there were lines etched into his forehead. Overall I’d put him in his early-to-midthirties. And, while his head and torso were normal size, his legs and arms were shortened, which likely meant that he was born with a form of disproportionate dwarfism.

  Still, sitting across from me, his height was far less noticeable and I focused on other features, like his brown hair, parted on the side, and the perfectly tailored charcoal-colored wool blazer, crisp white silk dress shirt, black slacks, and Italian leather shoes he wore, suggesting that he’d spent quite a bit of money on his attire. And if that weren’t a big enough clue, the gold Rolex on his wrist and the diamond-studded cufflinks were dead giveaways.

  The most striking thing about him, however, were his eyes. Large and colored a deep chestnut brown, they were framed by impossibly long lashes, giving him an innocent quality I found endearing.

  “So tell me why you’re here, Willem,” I said, reaching for a pen and pad that I kept on a table next to my chair.

  Willem sat on the couch and folded his hands, his feet dangling above the floor. “Wow, where do I even begin?” he asked.

  I smiled. “Start anywhere. We can piece together what we need to later. For now, just tell me what impulse led you to my door?”

  “Um . . . okay. I guess it’s because of my grandmother.”

  “Your grandmother?”

  “Yes. I live with her. And I’m not some loser who can’t earn a living. I handle my grandmother’s portfolio and do some freelancing for several luxury car magazines, so I do okay.”

  I jotted myself a note. He was intelligent, educated, and obviously a self-motivated worker. That was a relief. It’d be one less problem to solve.

  Willem continued. “Grandmother and I live together because, for the most part, she raised me from the age of four, and we look after each other.”

  “Your parents . . . ?” I inquired.

  “Dead to me.”

  I nodded. “Ah. Yes, I’ve got parents in that category as well.”

  Willem cocked his head, but a small hint of a smile touched his lips. We in the dysfunctional childhood club feel especially reassured when meeting other members.

  Gilley approached us with a steaming cup of tea and a dispenser of honey. “Here you are, Mr. Entwistle,” he said, setting down the cup and the honey.

  “Thank you, you’re too kind,” Willem said. And it was a genuine statement, and one, I noted, which made Gilley’s face flush. I could see he was beginning to feel really bad about laughing at Willem when he’d first appeared. Perhaps I didn’t need to lecture him after all.

  Gilley then turned to me, dipped his chin as if to apologize to me personally. I nodded slightly and there was peace between us once again. He then scurried over to his desk to get focused on my newsletter.

  “You know, I haven’t spoken to my parents in many years either,” I said, getting back to Willem’s point.

  Willem picked up the steaming mug next to him and hovered his lips over the brim while looking at me with raised brow. “Are they divorced or still together?”

  “They’re still together. Making each other miserable for nearly fifty years, now.”

  Willem smiled and nodded knowingly. “My parents have been divorced from each other since I was three. They’ve each been married and divorced from four other people throughout the years too, but I remain their only child, which, I suppose, is a blessing considering . . .”

  I bit my lip. I hoped that Willem wasn’t referring to his dwarfism as something that should never be replicated. True, the condition came with its setbacks, but Willem seemed to be a perfectly lovely young man.

  To get us back on track I said, “You had said that your grandmother is the reason you’re here?”

  “Oh, yes, almost forgot. Grandmother has requested I get out into the world and explore it. She wants me to go places and meet people—you know, socialize and all of that—but I’m reluctant.”

  I nodded. I could only imagine how difficult it might be for him as a little person. The stares. The ridicule. The inappropriate giggling . . .

  “Is it really so bad?”

  Willem shifted slightly. “Well, yes,” he said. “It’s pretty much a disaster anytime I step foot into a new setting.”

  “People can be so cruel,” I agreed.

  Willem stared at me oddly. “Oh, you think it’s the reaction to this that I’m concerned with?” He made a sweeping motion down the length of his body.

  I was caught off guard. I mean, wasn’t it? “Well . . . I . . . I didn’t want to assume, but you did say . . .” I let out a sigh and gave up. “Willem, I apologize. Please continue to tell me why you’d like to employ my help.”

  Willem bit his lip, as if suddenly nervous about speaking to me. He then glanced over his shoulder at Gilley, who sat typing away on his computer.

  I looked over too, and, although I couldn’t say for sure that Gilley wasn’t listening, it didn’t seem like he was. “Whatever you have to say will remain private,” I encouraged. “It will never leave this office.”

  Willem folded his hands together and straightened his shoulders as if gathering his resolve. “I need your help, because I believe—very strongly—that I’m cursed.”

  I blinked.

  Then blinked again.

  Then I leaned in a little and cocked my head. “You believe you’re . . . what now?”

  Somewhere in the background, I heard the steady clicking of keys on Gilley’s keyboard come to an abrupt stop.

  Willem leaned toward me too, mirroring my stance. “I’m cursed. Hexed. Damned. Doomed. Jinxed. Vexed. Pick your synonym, it’s all the same affliction.”

  I sat straight again and found myself smiling. It wasn’t that I found Willem’s confession funny; it wa
s simply that I didn’t quite know how to react. So, seeing that he was obviously an intelligent person, I tried stating the obvious. “Willem, curses aren’t real. They’re something roadside fortune-tellers level at gullible patrons.”

  “Oh, they’re real, Cat,” Gilley called out.

  I shifted my gaze to send him the most smoldering look I could muster. But Gil merely ignored my warning glare and got up from his seat and came over to perch on the arm of the couch at the opposite end of where Willem sat. “Who cursed you?” Gil asked.

  “Directly? No one I know,” Willem said.

  Gilley and I exchanged a confused glance before I addressed Willem again. “Then why do you believe that you’re cursed?”

  “My mother inherited a series of run-down apartment complexes in the Bronx. While pregnant with me she wanted to evict a woman from one of her buildings based solely on the fact that other tenants had complained that the woman was a gypsy who’d been setting curses on people in the building. The building’s super was too afraid to confront the woman and tell her to get out, so, in a show of bravado—which my mother is famous for—she went down to the building herself with two thugs in tow and personally evicted the woman, throwing all of her meager belongings onto the street.

  “On her way out the door, the woman issued a curse. Allegedly, she pointed to my mother’s belly and said that the son born to her would become the source of her greatest shame and bring nothing but disaster to any new environment wherever he would go. Five weeks later I was born like this,” he said, waving to himself again. “And disaster has followed me wherever I’ve gone.”

  I stared at Willem with widened eyes, and then pulled my gaze away to look at Gilley. We exchanged an unspoken Yikes!

  “Willem,” I said calmly, focusing back on him, “I’m quite sure your dwarfism isn’t due to any curse. From the little that I know about it, it’s a condition that’s caused by genetics, correct?”