by Lowe, Sheila
“We’re not doing anyone—I’m just noticing. He invited me to a party.”
“Well, go, for fuck’s sake; enjoy yourself. You don’t have to sleep with him.”
Claudia thought of the meticulous way Ian McAllister had arranged the accessories on his desk. His almost-mocking demeanor. “No, I certainly won’t do that. Anyway, I’m really not sure what I think about him. He has a couple of quirks—” She glanced at her watch. “Hey, sorry I woke you. I’ve gotta go see a psychologist.”
“My god, Claudia, you went all the way to New York to get shrink-rapped?”
“Not me. She shrinks the applicants for my client.”
Kelly’s voice was always as expressive as her face. This time, it held a laugh. “If you say so, Grasshopper. Just don’t let her give you any lotions, potions, or untowardly motions.”
Unlike Dr. McAllister’s fashionably appointed waiting room, Donna Pollard’s had the ambience of a homey den. You could imagine friends and family members gathering for an informal chat on the high-end home-style sofa. On the wall opposite the entry door, a soft-focus Kinkade painting drew the eye: a rose-festooned stone stairway that led upward into unknown places. Cutesy symbolism for someone engaged in self-exploration?
The air was at least ten degrees warmer than the hallway, and three times as stuffy. Feeling as if she stepped inside a marshmallow bunny, Claudia slipped out of her trench coat and folded it over her arm. She crossed to the interior door and followed the instructions on a small card to ring the doorbell upon arrival for an appointment.
The thick pile carpeting muffled the sound on the other side of the wall, but she thought she heard a faint ring. A few seconds later the door opened, framing a short, slender woman who looked like a middle-aged schoolgirl from the fifties: gray hair clipped back into barrettes, a light blue twin set and plaid woolen skirt with sensible black pumps.
Claudia held out her hand with a smile. “Dr. Pollard? I’m Claudia Rose. I’m the new graphologist for Elite Introductions.”
The woman didn’t smile back. Her body language was stiff, protective—elbows held close to her sides, putting up barriers. “I’m not Dr. Pollard,” she said, keeping a grasp on the doorknob and ignoring Claudia’s hand. “I’m her secretary, Dorothy French. Unfortunately the doctor is not going to be able to see you.”
“I don’t understand. Grusha Olinetsky’s assistant said she’d made an appointment for me. Is Dr. Pollard not here?”
“She is here, but there’s been a . . . a situation.” The muscles around the woman’s mouth bunched into a tight grimace. “We had a break-in this morning. It’s all very upsetting. The doctor is lying down.”
“Someone broke in?” Claudia echoed. “Is she okay?”
“That all depends on what you mean by okay. She needs some time to herself.”
Borrowing from Dr. McAllister’s “same team” reasoning, Claudia urged her. “Ms. French, please, if there’s something I can do, let me help. We’re both consultants for Elite Introductions.”
Conflicting emotions played out across the woman’s face. Longtime habit of maintaining professional distance probably made it difficult for her to share her concerns. Claudia nudged a little more. “It’s okay, you can talk to me. I’m not a client.”
Dorothy French’s small frame shuddered, and the act seemed to release something in her. She stepped into the waiting room with Claudia, shutting the door behind her, and moved over to the sofa. She sat on the edge, her back so straight she could have held a stack of books on her head. Finishing-school straight. Tension straight. But the hands clasped in fists on her lap betrayed her agitation.
Claudia could see that if she wanted to learn what had happened she would have to let Dorothy French ease into the story on her own. She sat at the other end of the sofa, allowing the woman time to gather her thoughts.
“All right,” Dorothy said at last. “All right.” Having decided to unburden herself, her words came tumbling out. “As I said, there was an intruder, and Dr. Pollard has been hurt.” At Claudia’s indrawn breath, she put out a restraining hand. “Not seriously hurt. At least, not in a physical way as far as I can tell. I mean, he struck her, but . . . As you can imagine, it was very upsetting for her. For us both.”
“I’m sure it must have been. Did she walk in on someone?”
French gave an impatient shake of her head. “No, no, it was the other way round. She was in the kitchen, making herself a cup of tea. If I’d been here, he wouldn’t have escaped, I can tell you that!” The fierce spark of anger in her eyes was convincing.
Claudia said, “Lucky for him you weren’t here. He must have been pretty brazen to just walk in.”
“It was very early. He wouldn’t have expected anyone to be here at that hour. When Dr. P has trouble sleeping, she comes here to the office and works on her progress notes. It’s dead quiet early in the morning, no phone calls or appointments.” Dorothy paused to take a breath. She continued to squeeze her hands tightly together, as if holding on to them gave her a sense of security.
“That’s what she’d done this morning, arrived before five o’clock. As I said, she was in the kitchen. She heard the back door open—the private entrance. It was locked, of course, but that lock was a bit flimsy. In fact, I’ve been at the building super for ages to have it seen to. This fellow must have used a credit card or some such, if the television shows are to be believed. Poor Dr. P was literally petrified when she heard him. She couldn’t move a muscle.”
“I don’t blame her,” Claudia said. “It sounds very frightening. What was he looking for? Drugs?”
“Heaven knows what he was after. We don’t keep anything of that sort here, other than our own prescription meds. Dr. P hid behind the kitchen door and then she heard him going through things in her office. She thought it would be safe to go out the back, the way he’d come in. Unfortunately, he heard her and came rushing out into the hallway and knocked her down. Bashed her over the head. I don’t know what he hit her with, but it was heavy enough to leave her senseless. He got away while she was unconscious, the bastard.”
“Was she able to describe him to the police?” Claudia asked.
But Dorothy French had reached the end of her willingness to dispense information. “As I told you earlier, the doctor is resting,” she said, rising from the sofa. “And now that you know the circumstances, you must understand why she’s unable to keep the appointment.”
Claudia was getting a bad feeling. She didn’t believe in coincidences any more than Jovanic did. She stood. “Ms. French. Dorothy, wait. I do understand, believe me, I do. But I need to speak to Dr. Pollard now, more than ever. It’s urgent. There’s a very serious matter I need to discuss with her before I return to the West Coast.”
“Out of the question.”
“Look, three people are dead. I think it’s entirely possible this break-in you’ve had could be connected to their deaths.”
Dorothy French stared at her. “What on earth are you talking about?”
Claudia struggled to put her suspicions into the right words. There were just too many bad things happening to people connected to Elite Introductions, too close together. But if she was wrong, and what she said got back to Grusha Olinetsky, she could find herself on the butt end of a defamation lawsuit. “Would you please just ask—” She broke off as the interior door opened and a woman appeared in the doorway, holding an ice pack to the base of her skull.
Chapter 9
Dr. Donna Pollard reminded Claudia of Mrs. Santa Claus. Her eyes were the blue of stonewashed denim, and a halo of white-blond cotton candy hair framed the round face. Two high spots of color blotched a complexion that was currently a light shade of pale. Claudia’s grandmother would have described the doctor as zaftig.
Pollard adjusted the ice pack and reached out to grasp Claudia’s hand in her own. “Come along with me,” she said. “We’ll talk.”
Behind them, Dorothy French made a huffing sound in protest. The psy
chologist turned to her and put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s all right, Dorothy. Stop fussing. I’m fine.”
They went to a small room with subdued lighting. Furnished more simply than the anteroom, it contained a low-slung easy chair and a love seat, a coffee table crammed between them. On the table, a box of tissues had been strategically placed for emotional clients. The walls were a muted shade of cobalt with matching drapes. Framed abstract artwork looked like Rorschach inkblots, waiting to be interpreted by the viewer.
Donna Pollard lowered herself into the easy chair and gingerly laid her head back, cushioning the ice pack behind her neck. “Please, sit anywhere.”
“That looks pretty painful,” Claudia said, opting for the middle of the sofa. “Are you all right?”
The psychologist’s lips twisted into a crooked smile. “Well, it’s certainly no fun, but it’ll heal. I’m sorry for the misunderstanding about your appointment.”
“You’ve had a very upsetting experience. Under the circumstances, I wouldn’t have pressed to see you, but there’s an urgent—”
“Dorothy is just being protective,” Pollard interrupted. “It’s her job.”
“I understand. Sometimes we need to have someone protecting us, but—”
“Do you have someone who protects you?”
“Uh, yes, I do. Dr. Pollard—”
“Something bad has happened to you, hasn’t it, Claudia?” Dr. Pollard removed the ice pack and laid it on her lap, her head tilted attentively, nodding slightly in encouragement.
Claudia felt her heart lurch. “What makes you say that?”
“I’m trained to recognize such things. There’s a deep sadness in you. I feel it.”
“Somebody I knew was murdered a couple of months ago.”
Why am I telling this to a total stranger?
Pollard made a sound of distress. “What a terrible thing!” She lowered her voice and leaned forward. “But as terrible as that is, I think there’s more, isn’t there? You’ve been sad for a long time. Far longer than a couple of months.”
The walls closed in. For a fleeting moment, Claudia actually considered getting up and running from the room, running from the intrusive questions. But then she wouldn’t get her own questions answered.
“Dr. Pollard, I really don’t think—”
“Why don’t you tell me about it.” Pollard’s voice was soft, almost hypnotic.
“Thank you for the offer. I appreciate the thought. But why don’t we stick with Elite Introductions business.”
“I can see that you’re hurting, dear. Talking about it would help so much. You’ll see.”
The insistent way Pollard was coming at her was unlike any therapist she had ever met, especially since she wasn’t a client. And why was the doctor behaving as if nothing had happened to her that morning? Claudia shook her head, bent on getting the meeting back on track. “Talking about me is not what I’m here for, Doctor.”
“But it could be . . . well, all right then, if you’re sure. But if you change your mind . . .”
“I’ll remember that.”
Pollard nodded, giving in with a knowing smile. “Well, okay. Welcome to the Elite team.”
“Thank you. I’ve just come from having a chat with Dr. McAllister,” she said, relieved to have turned Pollard’s attention away from her.
At the mention of McAllister’s name, something changed in Pollard’s eyes. What did that mean? Claudia plunged on, interested to see where it went. “He mentioned the party on Saturday night. I’m looking forward to meeting some of the clients whose handwritings I’ll be analyzing.”
“I’m sure they’ll be very interested in meeting you, too.”
“Do you think you’ll be up to going to the party?”
“Oh yes, dear, a little knock on the head isn’t going to stop me.” Donna Pollard gave a bright smile to underscore just how fine she was.
“A little knock on the head? You were attacked by an intruder. That’s nothing to shrug off. Have you been checked for concussion?”
Dr. Pollard reached over and patted Claudia’s hand. “The baroness expects me to attend these things. She needs me to help facilitate, since I’ve already met everybody who will be attending.”
“Why do I have the feeling that you don’t want to talk about the break-in?”
“You’re right. I can’t say I do.”
“Well then, there’s something I’d like to ask you about a couple of the dating club clients.”
Pollard’s face closed down. “I’m sorry, Claudia, but I can’t discuss clients. It goes against professional ethics. You should know that.”
“Even though we’re consulting about the same people for the same company?”
“Even though. It’s just not allowed.”
“Dr. McAllister wasn’t willing to help, either.” There it was again. That look. “Does it make a difference if these people are dead?”
There was a gasp from the other side of the coffee table, then a deafening silence.
“Are you aware that three of Grusha’s clients are dead?” asked Claudia, Pollard’s posturing and pretense that everything was fine and dandy wearing thin. “Are you aware that those clients were all under thirty, and that they all had accidents, and—”
“Stop,” Pollard protested in a faint voice. “I know about them. But I don’t see the point in talking about it.”
“Can you help me understand why Grusha would give me the handwritings of dead clients to analyze?”
“I have no idea. As you said, there were a couple of very unfortunate accidents. But that’s all they were.”
“No one suggested they were anything else.” Claudia wondered why Donna Pollard was being defensive. “Since you’ve mentioned it, though, don’t you think the odds are a bit high for three deaths to be chance occurrences?”
“Stranger things than that happen all the time,” Pollard answered quickly. “I don’t know why Grusha wants you to analyze their handwriting, but why don’t you just do it? That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?”
“Is it?”
“How would I know? I’ve just been hit on the head; I probably do have a concussion. I need to lie down.”
Something had touched a raw nerve. What was Pollard guarding so closely?
“Did you call the police about the break-in?”
Pollard hesitated.
“Why didn’t you?”
“There was nothing to tell them.” Petulance. “Why create a big fuss and upset the neighbors? I didn’t even see him, he came up on me from behind.”
“What about fingerprints?”
“I’m sure he wore gloves.”
“But you don’t know for sure?”
“He didn’t take anything. Nothing was missing.”
“What do you think he might have been after?”
“Drugs and money, of course. It was . . . just a random break-in.”
“You don’t really think that, do you?” Claudia shifted to the lip of the sofa and leaned toward Donna Pollard, putting herself into her space. “What are you afraid of, Dr. Pollard?”
“You mean, besides confronting an intruder?”
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
“What else would I be afraid of?”
“That’s what I’d like to know. Let’s see, I’ve been in New York for less than twenty-four hours and I’ve discovered that three young people are dead, all of whom you’ve met as Grusha’s clients, and now you’ve had a break-in. Don’t you think those things just might be connected? I do. And I think you have an idea of who’s responsible.”
“Does Grusha know that you know about all this?”
“Not yet, but she will soon. So why don’t we just move on and pool our resources? Maybe we can get a clearer picture of what’s going on here.”
“Nothing’s going on, I tell you.”
“Dr. Pollard, I’m not leaving until you tell me what you know, or think you know.”
“I
don’t know anything, I really don’t. It’s just a very unfortunate series of coincidences.”
Claudia didn’t move. Donna Pollard’s face scrunched into an expression of irritation and she gave a loud, resigned exhale. “What is it you want to know? Just tell me.”
“There are two women and one man who have died. Let’s start with the women. What do Heather Lloyd and Shellee Jones have in common?”
Pollard gave it some thought. She spoke with marked reluctance. “You’re asking the wrong question.”
“All right then, what should I be asking?”
“It might be more effective to look at whom they dated.”
“That information wasn’t in their files. Do you know?”
“New clients are introduced to three potential matches. There are crossovers.”
“What do you mean, crossovers?”
“Several women are introduced to the same man, or vice versa,” Pollard explained. “You have to understand, I may not know how everyone was matched up. Grusha doesn’t always keep me in the loop—it’s not necessary. But I do know that Shellee Jones went out with three men: Avram Cohen, John Shaw, and Marcus Bernard. Heather was also introduced to John Shaw. She went out with him once, but she didn’t like him, said he was too old for her, and she was absolutely right. She had asked to meet a man who was a little older, but it makes no sense to introduce a twenty-five-year-old girl to a man who’s nearly forty. When Heather died, Grusha was in the process of interviewing some younger men for her. She’d also dated Avram Cohen and Ryan Turner, but according to her, there was no chemistry with Avram. I don’t know what happened with Ryan.”
Ryan Turner was dead. Shellee was dead. Heather was dead. But Avram, John, and Marcus were not. What did it mean? She was trying to assimilate the news when Dr. Pollard dropped another bomb.
“I suppose I should tell you that three of the same men also dated Jessica McAllister.”
That stopped Claudia cold. “Who is Jessica McAllister?”
“Ian’s daughter, of course.”
Chapter 10
Having opened this new can of worms, Donna Pollard decided it was time to withdraw and refuse to say anything further. She closed her eyes, put the ice pack back on her neck, and called out for Dorothy French to escort Claudia to the door. The meeting was at an end.