Don't Cry Now

by Joy Fielding

  Bonnie nodded at the secretaries, although neither was looking her way, and followed Dr. Greenspoon into his office, a wonderful room that was all windows and built-in bookshelves. Two burgundy leather sofas sat across from one another, a long oval glass coffee table between them. A large mahogany desk sat off to one corner, as well as another small glass table and two pink-and-gray-pinstriped chairs. Several large plants stretched toward the high ceiling from corners of the room.

  Walter Greenspoon himself was about fifty years of age and larger than Bonnie had expected. Maybe it was because his picture in the paper revealed him only as a tidy grouping of head and shoulders that she was so surprised by his almost unruly size. He was well over six feet tall, with the massive chest and muscular arms of a running back. As if to balance this exaggerated masculine image, he wore a pale pink shirt and red paisley tie. His eyes were blue, his chin soft, his voice an interesting blend of gentle authority. “I’ll take that,” he said, indicating the clipboard.

  “I haven’t finished….”

  “That’s all right. We can finish it together. Have a seat.”

  Bonnie sat down on one of the burgundy leather sofas, Dr. Greenspoon sitting directly across from her on the other. She watched while he perused the information she’d already jotted down.

  “Bonnie Lonergan?”

  Bonnie cleared her throat. “Yes.” She cleared it again.

  “How old are you, Bonnie? Do you mind my asking?”

  “I’ll be thirty-five in June,” she told him.

  “And you live in Weston, I see. Nice area.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re married?”

  “Yes. Five years.”

  “Children?”

  “A daughter. She’s three. And two stepchildren,” she added, then bit down hard on her tongue. Why had she told him that?

  “What’s your occupation?”

  “I’m a high school teacher. English,” Bonnie answered, wondering at what point she could comfortably interrupt this needless exchange of information and get to the point of her visit. Still, it was probably a good idea to ease into things, to get the doctor to relax, as he was undoubtedly trying to do with her, before she began prodding him for information.

  “Do you like teaching?”

  “I love it,” Bonnie answered, truthfully.

  “That’s good. I don’t talk to a lot of people who are satisfied with their work, and that’s a shame. Are you having any medical problems?”

  “No.”

  “No migraines, stomach cramps, dizziness?”

  “No, I’m disgustingly healthy. I never get sick.”

  He smiled. “Are you taking any medication?”

  “Birth control pills.” Was that the kind of medication he meant?

  “Any childhood diseases?”

  “Chicken pox.” Guiltily, she touched a small scar above her right eyebrow. “My mother warned me not to scratch.”

  “That’s what mothers are for. Why don’t you tell me a bit about her.”

  “What?”

  “I just like to get a little background on my patients before we begin,” he said casually.

  “I don’t really think that’s necessary,” Bonnie told him. “I mean, I’m not here to talk about my mother.”

  “You don’t want to talk about her?”

  “There’s nothing to say. Besides, you know about her,” Bonnie stumbled, suddenly remembering she was supposed to be Joan’s sister. Had Doctor Greenspoon forgotten who she was supposed to be as well?

  “I know about her?” he repeated.

  “Doctor Greenspoon,” Bonnie began, “I’m Joan Wheeler’s sister.”

  Walter Greenspoon lay the clipboard on the seat beside him. “I’m sorry. I must have mixed things up. Forgive me. Were you and Joan close?”

  “Not really.” Bonnie breathed a sigh of relief. At last, the truth.

  “Still, you must have been stunned by her murder.”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “Do you want to talk to me about it?”

  “Actually, I was hoping you’d talk to me,” Bonnie told him.

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  Bonnie looked into her lap, then up at the doctor, then back at her lap. “I know that Joan had been seeing you.”

  “She told you that?”

  “Yes.”

  Dr. Greenspoon said nothing.

  “My sister had a lot of problems, doctor, as you know. She’d lost a child; she was divorced; she was an alcoholic.”

  Still the doctor said nothing.

  “And I know that she was trying to get her life back together. She told me that she was determined to stop drinking, and that she was seeing you.”

  “What else did she tell you?”

  “That she was worried about something. Someone, actually,” Bonnie corrected, wishing she knew what the doctor was thinking. “Her ex-husband’s wife and daughter,” Bonnie said, holding her breath until it hurt and she was forced to release it.

  “She was worried about her ex-husband’s wife and daughter?” Dr. Greenspoon said, in that infuriating way he had of repeating everything she said.

  “Yes.”

  “Why would she be worried about her ex-husband’s wife and daughter?”

  “I don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me.”

  There was a moment of silence. “Perhaps you could tell me a little more.”

  “I don’t know any more.” Bonnie heard her voice rise. She fidgeted in her seat, brought her hands into her lap, cleared her throat, started again. “I don’t know any more,” she repeated, her voice imitating the measured calm of the secretaries outside the door. “I just know that she was very worried about them. She told me that she felt they were in some kind of danger.”

  “She thought they were in danger?”

  “Yes. She made quite a point of telling me that she was afraid for them, and she asked me whether I thought she should contact her husband’s ex-wife and warn her?”

  “Warn her of what?”

  “That she was in danger,” Bonnie repeated in frustration. Was Dr. Greenspoon stupid or was he being deliberately obtuse? Maybe his two young secretaries actually wrote his advice column and the good doctor merely lent his head, shoulders, and stamp of male authority to the project.

  “Why are you here exactly?” the doctor asked, after a pause.

  “Well, I’ve been worrying a lot about what she said,” Bonnie told him, stuttering over her words. “I mean, I didn’t give it much thought initially. I just assumed Joan had been drinking, and she was talking her usual nonsense. But then, after she was murdered, I started to think more about it, and I started to worry that maybe I should be doing something….”

  “Aren’t the police investigating the matter?”

  “I don’t think they’re giving it a very high priority, no.”

  “And you think they should?”

  “I think that one woman has already died, and another woman and her child might be in danger.”

  “You think there’s a connection between the two?”

  “You don’t?”

  “I’m not sure what to think.”

  “I was hoping you could help me,” Bonnie said.

  “Help you with what exactly?”

  “Well, if there’s anything that Joan said to you that might be beneficial….”

  “I can’t divulge anything that was said in this office between Joan and me,” the doctor explained gently.

  “But if it would help save lives….”

  “I can’t break a patient’s confidence.”

  “Even if the patient is dead? Even if the patient has been murdered? If there’s a real danger that someone else might die?”

  “I’m cooperating with the police as best I can. I’ve already shared with them everything I think might be pertinent.”

  “But the police aren’t doing anything.”

  Dr. Greenspoon lifted his hands into the air, palms up
. “I have no control over that, I’m afraid.”

  “Dr. Greenspoon,” Bonnie began again, trying a different approach, “please try to understand. My sister is dead. She’s been murdered, and no one seems to have any clue who killed her. I was hoping that maybe you might be able to tell me something that might help us find her killer.”

  “I wish I could,” the doctor replied.

  “Was Joan afraid of something? Of someone? Did she say anything about any of the men in her life? About a Josh Freeman, for example? Or a Nick Lon—” She broke off abruptly. “Someone named Nick,” she said.

  “You know I can’t divulge that information.”

  “Dr. Greenspoon, the police found something in Joan’s home,” Bonnie began, trying yet another approach. “They found a scrapbook.”

  Walter Greenspoon’s expression grew quizzical. “A scrapbook?”

  “A scrapbook about Joan’s ex-husband’s new family. Everything from their wedding announcement to pictures of their little girl. It was almost as if Joan was obsessed.”

  The doctor said nothing, obviously waiting for her to continue.

  “Was she obsessed, Doctor?”

  “Why don’t you tell me more about what was in the scrapbook,” Doctor Greenspoon said.

  Bonnie took a deep breath, sensing for the first time that he might be willing to help her. “Mostly, it was about the woman Rod married. Rod is Joan’s ex-husband,” Bonnie clarified.

  He nodded. “And the woman’s name?”

  “Barbara,” Bonnie said quickly, wondering why she’d selected that name for herself. She’d never liked the name Barbara. “There were announcements about Barbara’s mother’s death and her father’s remarriage, about some trouble Barbara’s brother had gotten himself into a few years back, stuff like that, as well as articles about Rod’s progress at the network.”

  “And you think this scrapbook holds the key to Joan’s murder?”

  “I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to think about anything,” Bonnie wailed. “That’s why I’m so frustrated. Nobody will tell me anything. And I was hoping if I came to you, that you might be able to help me. You don’t have to divulge any confidences. You don’t have to tell me anything that Joan said to you. Just tell me whether or not you think Barbara and her daughter might be in any danger, and, if you have any suspicions, whom they might be in danger from.”

  “What kind of trouble had Barbara’s brother gotten himself into?” Dr. Greenspoon asked.

  “What?”

  “You mentioned that there was an article in the scrapbook about some trouble Barbara’s brother had gotten himself into.”

  Bonnie fought to keep her breathing under control. “Conspiracy to commit murder,” she whispered finally.

  “Conspiracy to commit murder?” the doctor repeated.

  “Barbara’s brother was a small-time hood with big ambitions,” Bonnie said, finding it strangely comfortable to talk about herself in the third person. “It was funny, actually, because when he was little, he always said he was going to be a cop, that was all he ever wanted to be. At least that’s what it said in the newspapers,” Bonnie lied, wondering in what recess of her memory she’d held that little gem from the past. “What is it they say? Cops and criminals are two sides of the same coin?” she asked, trying to recover her composure.

  “Seems to me I’ve heard something like that,” the doctor agreed.

  “Anyway,” Bonnie continued, “he and his so-called partner got into trouble over some land development scheme, but the charges were dropped. A few years later, they were convicted of conspiracy to commit murder.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Well, I only know what I read in the papers,” Bonnie said, fingering the small scar above her right eyebrow, “but apparently, it was some phony investment scheme gone sour. One of the parties, who’d already given Barbara’s brother a lot of money, got suspicious of how the money was really being spent, and threatened to go to the police. My…Barbara’s brother and his partner hired a hit man to kill this guy, only the hit man turned out to be an undercover cop. Isn’t that always the way?” Bonnie laughed nervously, wondering if Dr. Greenspoon had caught her near slip. “I mean, you keep reading about these people hiring hit men to kill somebody, and the hit man always turns out to be an undercover cop. I don’t think there are any real hit men in America. I think they’re all undercover cops.” Bonnie laughed again, a touch hysterically. “Anyway, they went to jail. Nick got three years; his partner, ten, because he already had a record, and because it was rumored that he had mob connections. Nick was just small potatoes.” Bonnie’s voice drifted to a halt.

  “Is this the same Nick you mentioned earlier?”

  “Yes. His name and phone number were in Joan’s address book. So, there does seem to be a connection, don’t you think?”

  “What do you think?” Dr. Greenspoon asked. “Do you think your brother might be involved in Joan’s murder?”

  Bonnie stopped breathing, the full impact of the doctor’s words slowly seeping into her brain, like thick syrup through a sieve. She opened her mouth to protest, thought better of it. What was the point? “How long have you known I’m not Joan’s sister?” she asked quietly.

  “Since I was told of your appointment,” he told her. “Did you think I wouldn’t know that Joan Wheeler was an only child?”

  Bonnie closed her eyes, felt the leather cushion beneath her sinking toward the floor. How stupid could she be? she wondered.

  “Do you want to tell me who you really are and what you’re doing here?” the doctor asked.

  “I’m Bonnie Wheeler,” Bonnie told him. “Joan was my husband’s ex-wife. I’m the woman Joan thought was in danger.”

  “I thought so,” Dr. Greenspoon said, “especially once you said her name was Barbara. Bonnie…Barbara. Two Bs.”

  “To be or not to be,” Bonnie mused out loud, and the doctor chuckled. “If you knew I wasn’t Joan’s sister, why didn’t you just cancel the appointment?”

  Walter Greenspoon shrugged. “I figured that whoever you were, you obviously knew Joan, and, just as obviously, you needed help.”

  “I’m sorry,” Bonnie told him, her eyes still closed. “I should have known I wouldn’t get away with it.”

  “I think you did know,” he told her simply.

  Bonnie ignored the implications of his remark. “You won’t tell me anything?”

  “For what it’s worth, I can assure you that if Joan had said anything during our sessions that might point the finger at her killer, I would have shared that information with the police.”

  “Did she ever say anything about me?” Bonnie pressed.

  “More than that, I can’t tell you.”

  “So, you won’t help me,” Bonnie said dejectedly, rising to her feet.

  “On the contrary,” Dr. Greenspoon said, “I think I can help you a great deal, if you’ll let me.”

  “You’re saying I need therapy?”

  “I think you’re a woman in torment,” he said gently, “and that therapy could be very beneficial to you. I hope you’ll give it some serious thought.”

  Bonnie walked to the door of his office and pulled it open. “I’m afraid one visit is all I can afford,” she said.

  17

  There was an unfamiliar black car in her driveway when Bonnie arrived home. “Now what?” she asked, peeking in the car’s front window, wondering whether Lauren had company. Except that Lauren didn’t seem to have any friends, and she’d been feeling so sick the last few days, it was doubtful she’d have picked now to invite anyone over. Maybe she’d called the doctor, Bonnie thought, quickening her pace, key reaching for the lock.

  The smell hit her as soon as she opened the door. Thick, pungent, full of exotic spices. “Hello?” she called. Was somebody cooking something?

  “We’re in the kitchen,” Lauren called back.

  She sounds healthy and cheerful enough, Bonnie thought, wondering what was goin
g on. “Lauren? Whose car is in the driveway?”

  He was standing in front of the stove top, hunched over a large pot, his back to her, his slim hips inside a pair of tight jeans, his blond hair falling forward, a large wooden spoon in his right hand. Even before he turned around, Bonnie could see his face, sense his impish grin.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice so low she wasn’t sure she’d spoken out loud.

  He pivoted on the heels of his brown leather boots, spun slowly toward her. “I thought you wanted to see me,” he said, “and I decided it was high time I paid my big sister a visit.”

  For an instant, Bonnie was too stunned to speak. Nicholas Lonergan, looking tanned and fit and tough as ever, brought the wooden spoon to his lips and licked at the bright red sauce clinging to it, as if it were an ice-cream cone. Bonnie’s glance shifted to Lauren, sitting at the kitchen table in her baby blue housecoat, her skin color back to normal, her eyes traveling warily between Bonnie and her brother, as if she were courtside at Wimbledon. “I don’t understand,” Bonnie said to Lauren, trying to keep her voice steady. “He came over and you just let him in?”

  “He’s your brother. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

  “How did you know he’s my brother?” Bonnie demanded, her voice raised. “He could have been anyone.”

  “I recognized him from his pictures in my mother’s scrapbook,” Lauren shot back defensively.

  “Ladies, ladies,” Nick interjected, with infuriating calm. “No fighting over me, please. Play nice.”

  Bonnie closed her eyes, felt her body sway. Let this be a bad dream, she prayed. Let me open my eyes and see no one.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve done something wrong,” Lauren was saying, her words cutting into the edges of Bonnie’s fantasy. “He’s your brother. Maybe he made a mistake, but he’s paid his debt to society.”

  “That I have,” Nick concurred, his voice crawling inside Bonnie’s head, forcing her eyes open. “And one of the things I learned in the slammer is how to cook. And nobody, and I mean nobody, makes a meaner spaghetti sauce than yours truly.”

  “Meaner being the operative word,” Bonnie said.

  Nick smiled, revealing the chipped front tooth he’d received in a fistfight when he was barely into his teens. A tough guy even then, Bonnie remembered. “Come on, Bonnie, loosen up. Sit down, put your feet up, enjoy a little fine cuisine….”