Delicious Torment

by Linsey Lanier

  “The service comes with the house.”

  “Like the cleaning staff?” she smirked.

  “Something like that. I’m sure my father would agree.” His air was the one he used when questioning a suspect he had the goods on.

  If she tried to explain this situation, Mr. P would probably laugh. So she’d have to put a good spin on it. “We’ll see about that.” She took another bite of the pastry, swigged down a final sip of coffee, stood. “Well, I’ve got to be off.”

  His dark brows drew together. “Breakfast too sweet for your taste? I apologize I don’t have sliced jalapenos for the croissants.”

  She gritted her teeth in a forced grin. “The croissants are delicious. But there’s no way you and I are going to the office together.”

  He stared off at the yard. “Ah, so you’re afraid of gossip?”

  “Damn straight.” With Becker and Holloway taking the lead. She turned and scooted across the deck to the kitchen door.

  “You needn’t be concerned. I know how to be discreet.”

  She had to laugh. “Oh, yeah? And just what do you think Gen would have to say about us living here?”

  The irritated befuddlement on his handsome face at the mention of his daughter, gave her a thin victory, but it lasted only a moment.

  “By the way…”

  She put her hand on the knob, sucked in a breath. “What?”

  “Don’t forget to make an appointment with a therapist this morning.”

  She turned back, resisting the urge to tap her foot on the cedar floor. “I haven’t forgotten our deal. Don’t you forget what you promised.”

  Parker kept his gaze on the garden as he fingered the coffee cup in his hand. “And if you want to be involved in the Langford investigation…”

  Her heart clenched. “What?”

  “Book more than one session with the doctor.”

  With the grunt of a charging rhinoceros, she spun on her heel, yanked the door open. As she stomped through it, Parker’s confident chuckle rang in her ears.

  * * *

  On the drive to the office, Miranda had a good talk with herself. What was she getting into with Parker and this house business? Despite the fantastic sex, she was furious with him for showing up like he had last night. This was exactly the situation she’d told him she didn’t want. She couldn’t handle it. Why wouldn’t he listen?

  Maybe because of her mixed signals?

  She’d let him pull every slick trick in the book on her last night. How did he get away with that? How did she let him push just the buttons that would make her succumb to him? She knew how. She cared about the man. Way too much. And he knew it. But that didn’t change the fact that she sucked at relationships. That she couldn’t believe love could last. Didn’t Parker get that?

  Oh, he got it all right. The sensual snoop knew exactly what he was doing. He wanted to live together to prove her wrong, and he was using the house to make it happen. That explained his smug, self-satisfied look at the nursing home when she made the deal with Mr. P.

  She had a good mind to throw him out on his ear. She would have last night, but what’s a girl to do when she finds a sexy, naked man in her shower?

  What about the darn house? It belonged to him. Surely Parker didn’t have her owning the place in mind when he’d first asked her to move in with him. When was he going to break down and admit that?

  She could wait him out, but as stubborn as the man was, that could take a long time. She could pack up and leave, but that would leave Desirée Langford’s murder unsolved.

  In her mind, she saw the troubling image of the young woman lying dead in Calypso’s stall. That poor, disfigured face.

  Who would do that to themselves? A woman like Desirée Langford wouldn’t destroy her own face. Miranda didn’t care what the police had concluded. That wasn’t suicide. That wasn’t self-destruction. It was hatred. A bubbling, raging jealousy. Like the jealousy she saw in Usher yesterday afternoon at the funeral. Or maybe like the jealousy of Dr. Kennicot the vet, as Usher claimed? If Desirée had two men fighting over her, either one of them could have killed her. Miranda was determined to find out which one it was.

  She had to solve the case. It wouldn’t be right to walk away now. But when she figured out who murdered Desirée Langford, she was moving out of that mansion for good. In the meantime, she’d have to think of something to keep the persistent, horny investigator-slash-bodyguard at bay.

  * * *

  She got to the Imperial Building early, before most of the other IITs, snuck in the back way, and even managed to make it to the coffee machine to guzzle down another cup of wake-up juice before anyone saw her.

  She muttered to herself as she headed for her desk. “Okay, Mr. Smart-Ass-Ace-Investigator. You won this one, but you’d better do what you said.”

  As soon as she reached her cube, she yanked a phone book off the shelf and turned to the “Ps” in the yellow pages. There were a slew of names. Dr. Alton on East Paces Ferry. Dr. Alexander on Peachtree Dunwoody. Dr. Brown on Lenox Road.

  She groaned. There were more shrinks in Atlanta than you could shake a neurosis at.

  Closing her eyes, she plopped her finger on the page. Dr. Berkoff on Peachtree. Right down the street. Good enough. She dialed the number.

  Earliest appointment was six weeks from now. Crap.

  Try again. Dr. Campbell. Booked until August.

  Okay, she’d go farther down the alphabet. Dr. Lindstrum. Twelve years clinical experience. Depression, Eating Disorders, Hypnosis. Whatever. She dialed again. This dude was booked until September. Anxiety must be on the rampage in Buckhead.

  She tried the M’s.

  Six calls later, she’d reached the Z’s and came up with zip. Every psychologist, psychiatrist, and counseling clinic was booked for at least a month. Was everyone in Atlanta phobic? The morning paper peeking out of her Inbox caught her eye. She grabbed it and started flipping. Bingo.

  A big half-page ad in the Metro section. “Feeling stressed? Lonely? Depressed? We can help.” Dr. Theodore Theophilus, Licensed Social Worker and Psychotherapist, was holding a group therapy session open to the public at one o’clock this afternoon. And best of all, it was free. She tapped in the number on her phone.

  One spot left. She grabbed it.

  Good enough. She sat back with a victorious grin. That ought to satisfy Parker, especially if Dr. T had regular sessions. When she got back from the shrink’s, the Langford case was first on her to-do list.

  Chapter Twelve

  Dr. Theodore Theophilus’s rented space on the ground floor of a Piedmont Road office building was friendly in a medicinal, sterile sort of way. The large meeting room, with its linoleum floor, notices posted on the walls, and high, echoing ceiling, had the feel of a small gymnasium. Without the locker room smell, of course. That wouldn’t do for Buckhead.

  Instead, as Miranda walked through the doorway, she thought she caught a whiff of…sandalwood? The dude must be into aromatherapy.

  The traffic had made her late and a circle of assorted victims, uh, patients, were already gathered around in a circle.

  As she neared the group, she spotted a short, pudgy man in a sky-blue sweat suit with a bald spot on top of his head. The rest of his reddish hair stuck out in all directions, like he’d been playing with a light socket.

  “Welcome.” He waved to her, his bright blue eyes dancing with excitement. “Come join us. We’re just about to start.”

  Two of the clients moved over and Miranda took a place in the circle.

  “As I was explaining, we’re about to have our ‘Happy Time.’”

  Happy Time? She looked around the group. It was made up mostly of women in their twenties and thirties, dressed in jeans and sweat clothes. They looked like an assortment of well-to-do Buckhead soccer moms with a lot to be happy about already. But anxiety disorder knew no monetary boundaries.

  Still, Miranda felt a little out of place in her navy dress slacks and plain white
blouse she’d bought to replace the one Leon had sliced up. Except for the skinny young-looking guy in a dress suit across the circle, who didn’t look like he belonged here, either.

  And who was that next to him? Miranda did a double take as she took in the young girl dressed in jeans and a plain green T-shirt. Was that who she thought it was?

  Dr. Theophilus cleared his throat. “What is your ‘Happy Time,’ you must be wondering?” He chuckled, squeezed his hands together in a nervous gesture. “Well, it’s a time when you can return to a place in your childhood when life was joyous and carefree.”

  Sounded like what she’d heard called your ‘Happy Place.’ The phrase must be copyrighted.

  An assortment of colored plastic balls of various sizes sat on the floor. Theophilus reached for a blue one that looked like a small Pilates ball and held it up. “So close your eyes, think of that time. And now, we’re going to play catch, just like you did on the playground as a child.”

  Miranda’s gaze wandered back to the young girl. It couldn’t be her, could it?

  Suddenly, the blue ball came sailing toward her head. Instinct taking over, her arm shot up and she socked it hard with her fist.

  “Hey.” One of the patients ducked as the missile flew over her head and bounced against the wall with a smack. It ricocheted back and knocked the doctor right on his bald spot.

  “Oh my,” Theophilus squealed, rubbing his scalp, his free hand flapping as he chased after the ball. “We do have a lot of pent up aggression, don’t we?”

  “Sorry,” Miranda shrugged. “It was a reflex.”

  The young girl across the circle giggled.

  Miranda recognized that sound. She stared at her again. It was her. Wendy Van Aarle. The girl whose life she’d saved. But with a very different look. No wonder she hadn’t recognized her at first.

  Gone was the Goth look with the dark makeup and clothes. Her hair was lighter, straighter, and cut in a grownup shoulder-length style. Her makeup had been applied with a light touch. Her complexion had color, instead of the wan shade she’d always had before. She looked like a new person. Miranda felt her heart melting.

  Dr. Theophilus returned to the center of the circle with his ball. “Once again, I’m going to toss this to each of you.” He turned slowly, addressing everyone, as if they really were kids on a playground. “Catch the ball and throw it back to me.”

  Guess she’d missed the instructions. The doctor tossed the ball to her. This time she caught it and tossed it back to him.

  “That’s right,” he nodded and smiled, tossing the ball to the patient next to her. “Don’t take it so seriously. This is ‘Happy Time.’ It’s a game.” He continued around the circle.

  When she caught the ball, Wendy giggled again. One of the soccer moms joined her.

  “That’s right,” Dr. Theophilus said. “Laugh. This game is supposed to make you loosen up, release your anxieties. Laughter cleanses the soul.”

  Cleanses the soul? Sorry, didn’t bring my psychic soap, Miranda thought, catching the ball a second time as it went around again. If she’d wanted a workout, she could have done laps in Parker’s gym. Well, you get what you pay for.

  “Very good.” Theophilus caught the ball and held it up. “This time, as I toss the ball to you, clap your hands. Remember, it’s okay to laugh at yourself. C’mon, everyone clap.”

  The room began to fill with the sound of clapping hands and laughter. This was weird. Parker had better be working on the Langford case right now.

  “Doctor,” one of the soccer moms asked, “is this really going to cure my anxiety?”

  He looked thoughtful. “It’s a beginning, but if you really want to make progress, you can call my office and make an appointment. I have openings next week.”

  Miranda grinned. She’d just met her new therapist.

  “Do you use behavioral therapy or a Freudian approach?”

  “I just focus on getting you to your Happy Place.”

  The soccer mom beside Miranda frowned. “What about dealing with OCD? Working through childhood trauma?”

  Theophilus shook his head. “All you need is to find your Happy Place. I’m writing a book about it. Tanya Terrance is interviewing me on the radio next week.”

  So that was his angle. Well, Dr. Phil had nothing to worry about.

  As tempting as it was to fulfill Parker’s bargain with this guy’s openings, Miranda didn’t think she could stomach weekly sessions with Mr. Happy Place.

  Clapping and waiting for her next turn, she looked across the circle and caught Wendy’s eye. The girl shot her a grin of recognition.

  When Theophilus turned his back, Wendy grimaced at him. Miranda nodded and rolled her eyes.

  She got an idea. As the ball came to her, she gave it another hard sock and sent it flying across the room.

  “Oh, dear.” Theophilus shoved his hands on his hips and shook his head. “We have to get rid of that aggression.” Then he turned and trotted after the ball.

  Miranda broke out of the circle and scooted over to Wendy. “What do you say we blow this pop stand? This is too freaky for me.”

  “Me, too,” she nodded. “Good idea.”

  Before anyone noticed, they were out the door and onto the sidewalk outside. Miranda spotted an ice cream shop across the street. “Would you like a sundae? My treat.”

  Wendy lit up. “Sure.”

  * * *

  Watching Wendy Van Aarle dig into a banana split in a rainbow-colored booth at Dilbert’s Ice Cream Palace was anything but therapeutic, Miranda decided. The last time she’d seen the girl was when Leon slashed up her chest.

  “So how are things with, uh, your family?” she asked cautiously.

  “Better since we’ve been going to counseling.” Wendy dragged her spoon neatly around edge of the dish to capture the melted ice cream and syrup, then licked it with her tongue. “The doctor ordered us to spend more time together.”

  “So I heard.” Parker had filled her in on the details after she got out of the hospital. “What were you doing at Dr. Theophilus’s, uh,” she circled the air with her finger, “‘Happy Time’ hour?”

  Wendy smirked. “It was my mother’s idea. She wanted to get her hair done and she needed a place to, like, park me.” She rolled her eyes and took a bite of the strawberry ice cream. “That doctor was a total doofus.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” Miranda felt a twist in her stomach. Like, “park” her? Was Iris Van Aarle neglecting her daughter again?

  She watched Wendy make a dent in the scoop of chocolate. Her face was prettier without the heavy makeup she used to wear. Her highlighted hair fell just at her shoulders. Miranda imagined Iris giving her daughter a makeover, the two of them bonding together over lipsticks and eye shadows. “How are you and your mother getting along?”

  Wendy scrunched her nose. “Well, it’s summertime, so she’s teaching me her cosmetics business. She calls it ‘home schooling.’” Iris Van Aarle was owner and CEO of the fabulously successful company Iris Rose Cosmetics. Part of Miranda admired the woman. “I’m learning bookkeeping.”

  “Do you like that?”

  Wendy lifted one shoulder. “It’s okay. We might have to really home school in the fall, if I can’t get into a regular school.”

  “That’s too bad.” It sucked that Wendy was being blacklisted because of what happened to her, but maybe staying out of school for a while was what she needed after what she’d been through. “And what about your dad?”

  She scooped up some whipped cream and put it in her mouth. “He takes me to the golf course once or twice a week to practice my swing. It’s pretty cool.” Wendy’s father was Shelby Van Aarle, the famous golf pro. It was an understatement to say Wendy’s mom and dad had beaucoup bucks. But until recently, they had come up short when it came to things like support and affection and paying attention to their own daughter. Miranda still felt a lot of resentment about that.

  “So you and your folks are getting on a lot bett
er.”

  “Sure. We have dinner together at least three times a week.”

  “I see.” Sounded real intimate.

  Miranda studied Wendy’s face. Was she really happier? Was she better off now that her parents were paying more attention to her? At least she was alive.

  The thought almost brought tears to her eyes. God, she couldn’t believe how much she cared about this kid. But then, it wasn’t too long ago that she thought this girl was her own daughter.

  “What about you? Do you have any friends your own age?”

  Wendy licked at the spoon, studied it a moment. “They won’t let me on a computer anymore. I never really had many friends. You know that.”

  “Yeah.” It was something they had in common. They were a lot alike, both of them with a bitter-edged, jaded view of life. Miranda’s had started to form when she was about Wendy’s age, she guessed. When she’d realized how little her own mother cared about her. She’d never out-grown it. Life could be a real pile of crap sometimes.

  “What are you doing these days?” Wendy asked. “Are you still working for Mr. Parker?”

  “Yes, I am,” Miranda said, surprised Wendy was interested. “I’m looking into the death at the Northwinds Steeplechase last weekend.”

  “I heard about that.”

  “Did you?”

  She gave a short laugh. “My mother hid the paper when it happened. She thought I’d freak out if I saw it. But I snuck a peek. I heard her talking on the phone to Mrs. Taggart about it. She was real upset.”

  Miranda bet she was. Cloris Taggart was the Steeplechase coordinator and one of the women who had lost their own daughters last month. “It was terrible.”

  Wendy leaned across the table with almost a grin. “So what have you found out so far?”

  Was she interested in the case? Miranda shrugged. “Not much.”

  “Didn’t the police say it’s a suicide? From a PCP overdose?”

  God, young people knew too much these days. “Yeah, but we’re not sure.”

  Wendy shrugged again, now acting as if it were the most boring topic in the world. Short attention span, Miranda guessed. Then the girl dipped up some of the soupy goo of the now half-melted sundae, and watched as it dripped off the spoon. “Don’t you have to get drugs like that from like a criminal? Like maybe a gang person or something?”