Not a Word

by Stephanie Black

  “A privilege, huh?” Kirk drizzled creamer into his mug. “I didn’t realize Vicki’s psychosis was that severe. Tell her to make an appointment.”

  “I’ll tell her to make an appointment with the state board to tell them you printed your license off the Internet,” Skyler said.

  “How long are you here at the office today?” Kirk asked. “Because we have a party scheduled for as soon as you leave to go flirt with the knee-replacement brigade.”

  “No physical therapy appointments until two, but if there’s a party here, maybe I can bail out earlier. I know how you psychologists party. You sit around analyzing each other’s childhoods, then dump your drinks on napkins and analyze the blots.” Skyler looked at Natalie. “How’s Camille doing?”

  “She’s okay. Busy with work. Too busy.”

  “She seeing anyone?” Skyler asked. Kirk glared at him, and he cringed. “Whoa, Valdez, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m taken. I’m not chasing her. I’m just asking how she’s . . . you know, healing. Poor girl. They weren’t even married a year, right?”

  “Just over six months,” Natalie said.

  Skyler grimaced. “Awful stuff.”

  Natalie’s phone buzzed again. “I’ll let her in.” She exited the break room and passed through the waiting room to open the outer door.

  “Good morning.” Camille entered the office, her raincoat draped over her arm. She wore a teal blouse with a beaded gold-and-coral scarf, a coral pencil skirt, and six-inch snakeskin heels.

  Natalie hugged her and relocked the outer door; the office didn’t open for another forty-five minutes. “You look great. I love the shoes.”

  “Aren’t they fabulous?” Camille lifted one foot and swished it back and forth. Natalie was impressed that she could balance on one stiletto. “On clearance at DSW.”

  “Sweet. Come on back.” Natalie led her out of the waiting room.

  Kirk and Skyler were standing outside the break room. Kirk had rolled his sleeves down and buttoned the cuffs, and Skyler had finger-styled his hair. Kirk was married, and Skyler was engaged, but male preening seemed to be an irresistible impulse when Camille was near. Vibrant, funny Camille was a Renoir painting come to life, with her graceful, rounded face and full lips, curvy figure, and flowing blonde hair.

  “Guys! How are you?” Camille smiled at them, and they trotted toward her. “It’s been awhile.” She hugged both men.

  “The renovation’s looking good,” Skyler said. “I drove past it the other day.”

  “Can you believe he’s honestly naming it the Stoker Building?” Camille asked. “That’s Bob Chapman in a nutshell.”

  “What’s wrong with ‘Stoker Building?’” Skyler asked. “Who is Stoker? Some investor?”

  “No. The building was originally built in 1897, which was the year Dracula was published.”

  “And?” Skyler said.

  Kirk snickered. “Dracula,” he said. “By Bram Stoker, you ignoramus.”

  “He named it after the vampire-novel guy? Because of the date?”

  “That’s Bob,” Camille said. “Most people will never know why it’s named that, which he finds even funnier.”

  “The Stoker Building.” Skyler brushed his bangs off his eyebrows and grinned at Natalie. “You’re lobbying this rich dude to fund a mental health clinic in a vampire’s castle?”

  “Vampires need psychological services too,” Natalie said.

  “Vampires and Jedi.” Skyler waved farewell. “Good to see you, Camille.” He headed toward his office.

  Kirk smiled and retreated as well.

  Natalie ushered Camille into her office. “I can’t believe how smoothly you walk in those heels,” she remarked as Camille passed her.

  “Practice. You should wear heels. They’ll make your legs gorgeous.”

  Natalie eyed the portion of her legs that showed beneath her knee-length gray wool skirt. Navy tights, low-heeled, brick-red pumps. “Next time I have a date, I’ll think about it.” Given the deadness of her recent social life, she’d be safe from stilettos forever.

  “Not that your legs aren’t already gorgeous,” Camille said. “Wear what you want; that’s how I feel about it. I hate fashion police. Or at least I’ve hated them since I realized how obnoxious I was in high school. Your hair is darling. Did you get it cut?”

  Natalie flipped her fingers through her shoulder-length bob. “Nope. The curl makes it look shorter. How is everything? Your text sounded stressed.”

  “Curt and rude, you mean. ‘I’m coming over! Make time for me or else!’” Camille sat on the couch and dropped her raincoat and purse on the floor. “Sit on the couch with me. If you sit in your Dr. Marsh chair, I’ll think you’re diagnosing me.”

  “I’m listening as a friend no matter where I sit.” Natalie settled on the couch. “What’s up?”

  “I’ll get to the point since I know you have clients arriving soon. Something weird is going on.” Camille played with the wedding ring she still wore, rotating the diamond-loaded band around her finger. “I think someone is stalking me.”

  “Stalking you! What’s going on?”

  “It’s . . . well, for a while, it was small things. Silly things that might not have been real issues, if you know what I mean.”

  “Like you might have imagined them?”

  “Yes, or misinterpreted them. Like I’d be shopping and I’d get this feeling that someone was watching me, but there wouldn’t be anything definitive—just hints of motion out of the corner of my eye. Or I’d be walking in the park and would keep seeing the same person, but they were wearing a hooded jacket, and if I looked toward them, they were always looking down or in the other direction, and I never saw their face. I figured I was being paranoid and didn’t worry about it too much. But over the past couple of weeks, there have been a few times when I had the windows open, when the weather’s been so nice, and I’d see little movements outside my study window or hear weird noises.”

  “Weird noises?”

  “Rustling or twigs breaking.”

  “Noises that a cat or raccoon couldn’t have made?”

  “I did figure it was an animal or my imagination. But yesterday, Bob wanted a face-to-face update—which businesses have signed leases for space in the Stoker Building, what the latest proposals are from the interior design team, and so on. We met at the renovation site. We were in the office trailer, and I glanced out the window and saw someone standing there. Right behind the trailer.”

  “Inside the fence?”

  “No, outside, but . . . right there.”

  “Peeking in the window?”

  “I think he had been. I think I saw him turn—or her—I couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman; they were wearing a loose hooded sweatshirt. I think they were facing the trailer but turned away when I looked.”

  “They were standing there doing nothing?” “Well, texting.”

  Natalie imagined the scenario; she’d been to the renovation site a few times and could picture the trailer and the fence. “Did you get a look at their face or part of their face?”

  “Just a glimpse . . . I think they’re . . . Caucasian?” She sighed. “I know that’s useless.”

  “Did you try to confront them yesterday?”

  “No. What could I say to Bob? ‘Excuse me while I run outside and ask that person in the hoodie if they’re watching me’? Besides, they walked away a few seconds after I looked out the window. I think they knew I’d noticed them.”

  Natalie was starting to understand why Camille had been apprehensive about her shifting into psychologist mode. “Okay. Let’s break this down. The hooded sweatshirt—was it raining while the lurker was there?”

  “Yes, but . . . okay, yes.”

  “So there’s another reason for the hood. If he was looking in the window, is there anything besides you that could have drawn his interest?”

  “Maybe he wanted a peek at my eccentric boss or was nosy in general, but I felt so uneasy. Weird vibes. Come
on, it’s intuition.”

  Natalie contemplated Camille’s words. Yes, she believed in intuition. Yes, it was possible someone was obsessed with Camille.

  Yes, Camille had some leanings toward melodrama and tended to jump to conclusions. Yes, she was under a lot of stress.

  “Stop that,” Camille snapped. “You’re running everything I told you through your DMV book, or whatever, and trying to label my brain malfunction.”

  “You mean DSM,” Natalie said. “Diagnostic and Statistical Manual. Though the Department of Motor Vehicles is a lot scarier.”

  Camille laughed. “Freudian slip.”

  “Camille, you know I have the capacity to listen as a friend. Stop being so defensive. You’re worried someone is stalking you. Is there anyone you’ve been in conflict with lately? Anyone who’s threatened you?”

  “Oh . . . no . . . There were people who were bent out of shape when I got the Stoker management job, too big of a promotion, they deserved it more, or whatever, but I have a hard time imagining any of them hanging around and spying on me.”

  “Do you feel like the stalker wants to harm you?”

  “I have no idea what he wants. I was guessing he just wanted to watch me—believe me, I’ve been keeping my curtains closed when it’s dark outside—but last night when I got home after work, someone was in my garage.”

  Alarm flashed in Natalie’s mind. Up till now, Camille hadn’t offered any evidence heftier than imagination, but an intruder was different. “You saw someone?”

  “I heard them. A noise from behind my storage bins. And don’t say it was a rat because it wasn’t a rodent noise. It was two knocks.”

  “Knocks?”

  “Like knocking on a door, only not a door. A knock on something hard, probably one of the bins. Two even, clear pops.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I yelled that I had a Taser, ran into the house, and locked the door.”

  “You have a Taser?”

  “I was bluffing. I don’t want a Taser; I’d electrocute myself.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “I called my neighbor. He’s an ex-Marine, big muscly guy. He searched my garage and house and yard but didn’t find anyone.”

  “Any footprints? Like wet footprints in the garage?”

  “No, but maybe the stalker was waiting for so long that they’d dried. And don’t tell me I imagined that knocking noise because I didn’t. You don’t believe me, do you? You don’t think there’s a stalker.”

  “Have I said that?”

  Camille crinkled one side of her face, pondering the question.

  “I haven’t said it,” Natalie said.

  “I’m reading your mind. You thought it.”

  “Why didn’t you call the police?”

  “Because I was afraid they wouldn’t believe me about a creeper in my garage. I was afraid they’d write up a report and file it in the ‘Drama Queen’ archive.”

  Natalie refrained from joking that if she were chief of police, she’d definitely be tempted to create an archive like that.

  Camille fidgeted with one of the gold beads that dangled from the hem of her scarf. “All right, I’m sorry for being so testy. I do want to know what you think about all this, so chuck it at me. Be frank.”

  “All right. I think you doubt there’s a stalker.”

  “So I’m paranoid, and I’m paranoid about being paranoid. Meta-paranoid.”

  “No. I think you’re excited and stressed about your new job responsibilities. You’re feeling overwhelmed but don’t want to admit it to yourself because you’re superwoman.”

  “Do you think the scenario of an evil stalker dogging me is easier for me to cope with than the scenario of being dogged by insecurity and possible failure?”

  “Do you think that?”

  Camille glowered at her. “I knew you didn’t believe me.”

  “I can give you sympathy and hugs if you want them, but I don’t think that’s why you came to me. You know better than I do that every incident you’ve told me about could be harmless coincidence—someone doing their shopping, a random passerby curious about the Stoker renovation, a couple of supersized raindrops falling from a tree branch and smacking your garage roof. If you thought there was more weight to your fears, you would have called the police, not your neighbor.”

  Camille rubbed her thumb against the largest diamond on her ring, her gaze focused past Natalie. “I don’t know. This is giving me the creeps. Could it . . . be grief related, do you think?”

  “Sure. You want to share your stress with Dante and get his support, but you can’t. You want him to see how you’re succeeding and be proud of you, and instead you’re coming home to an empty house.”

  “I’ve been coming home to an empty house for nineteen months,” she said curtly. “What makes you think I’m having a worse time now?”

  “Intuition,” Natalie said. “Weird vibes.”

  “You’re a brat.”

  “You’re wearing the pearl earrings he gave you for your first Christmas and the blouse you wore in your engagement pictures, and you keep playing with your wedding band.”

  “Grr. Look who’s going all Hercule Poirot.” Camille held up her left hand and studied her ring. “Do you think it’s unhealthy that I still wear this when it’s been a year and a half since some anonymous weasel ran my husband down in a crosswalk?”

  “Unhealthy in what way?”

  “Like I’m supposed to move on. Like I’ve been mourning him three times as long as we were married.”

  “The fact that you were only married for six months is irrelevant. Grief isn’t a mathematical equation. Wear the ring as long as you want. Only you can say if and when it’s not healthy for you.”

  Camille lowered her hand and sighed. “It has been tough lately. I wonder if it’s fallout from what happened to your neighbor’s husband . . . your neighbor from when you were a kid, I mean. Felicia Radcliffe.”

  Pain gouged Natalie. “I can see how you’d relate to that.”

  “Right? Kissing your husband good-bye in the morning with no idea you’ll never see him alive again . . . that he’ll fall off a stupid ladder . . .” She gave Natalie a bleak smile. “You collect more than your share of widowed-too-young friends. Find a new hobby, Nat.”

  Camille’s black humor usually amused Natalie, but this time it made her feel illogically culpable. “That’s what Skyler said. And he asked me to please visit my bad luck on someone who wasn’t his client next time because he’d done great work with Wade and now it was wasted.”

  “Wade Radcliffe was his client?”

  “A couple of years ago, in PT. He got hit in the head with a softball while playing in that local-business-owners league.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Serious concussion, but he recovered.”

  Camille shuddered. “That makes me feel like the Grim Reaper was already following him around. When his first try didn’t work, he clonked him a second time. And that was a punk comment from Skyler.”

  “Teasing is his way of coping. And he apologized for it even before Kirk threatened to knock his teeth out.”

  “You know what’s weird? You know how I told you I met Felicia’s husband for the first time at his store not long before he died?”

  “Yes.”

  “It was bugging me, so I went back and looked at my receipt, and I looked up the newspaper reports on his accident. I met Wade the day he died. That day! First time I’d ever shopped at MaryLisa’s. I was there late in the day too, near closing time—what if I was his last customer? What if I was the last person he talked to? I saw him after his wife saw him!”

  “And you feel guilty about that.”

  Camille groaned. “Yes. And I was a piece of work too. I got all tense and emotional because I was there to buy myself my birthday present from Dante, and I ended up having to flee to the restroom to get control of myself. What if the last woman’s voice he heard was mine haggling over the c
ost of that fancy purse and trying not to break down in front of him? I’ve always wished I could go back in time and call Dante at the end of the day so I could tell him I loved him, that those could be the last words he heard instead of whatever random last words he heard from whoever. Which is a silly wish; if I could go back in time, I’d prevent him from getting run down at all. And yes, I know feeling guilty is irrational; you don’t need to tell me that.”

  “Here’s something to help you ditch that irrational guilt: Felicia probably was the last person Wade spoke to. At the funeral, someone—her sister, maybe?—told me he called Felicia after work to tell her he was staying late and that she’d offered to bring him dinner, but he’d said he was fine.”

  Camille’s face brightened. “Really? Oh, I feel so much better. How is she doing?”

  “I wish I knew. She’s been avoiding me.”

  “I thought you guys were close.”

  “We were when I was a kid, but I don’t see her very often anymore. I keep trying to reach out to her, but when I call or text, she usually doesn’t answer. If I stop by her house, I’m lucky if I get a chat on the doorstep. She did mention that her stepson has been helping her out, so I hope she has the support she needs.”

  “Good, I’m glad to hear that.”

  “I’m not surprised she’s choosing to grieve mostly on her own. She’s a private person.”

  “She knows you’re there if you need her. It’s only been, what, a month since Wade died?”

  “Yes, six weeks or so. But back to your current stress. What can I do to help you?”

  “What do you think would help?”

  “How about some mental time off? You need a break. What are you up to tonight?”

  “Work.”

  “Forget it. Lock your work in your desk, put on some old sweatpants, and pop some popcorn. I’ll come over. We’ll binge-watch Netflix.”