The Enemy We Know (Letty Whittaker 12 Step Mystery)

by Donna White Glaser

  He plunked a bottle of Excedrin next to my elbow and reached over to tousle my hair. That hurt.

  “You’re gonna live,” he said, apparently thinking the physical aspect of my hangover caused my distress. I didn’t enlighten him.

  Instead I worked at pulling myself together, fumbling weakly with the cap. Friggin’ child proof. . . He took it away, popping the top with ease. But I forgave him when he handed over two pills and a glass of orange juice.

  “You were pretty wasted last night, huh?” He joined me at the table, opening a pastry box. My nose had a schizophrenic episode, simultaneously loving and hating the sugary smell of coffee cake. My stomach was clearer, rolling ominously.

  “I guess so,” I answered weakly. “Uh, thanks for picking me up.” I could assume that much since my car had been nowhere in sight when I looked outside.

  I must have guessed correctly, because he nodded and mumbled “you’re welcome” through a full mouth. Swallowing, he said, “Almost didn’t happen though. Next time you call, stay on the phone long enough to tell me where you’re at.”

  I just didn’t have enough functioning brain cells to pull off the bluff. “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t remember, huh? I’m not surprised, as blasted as you were. You called me about one saying something about Wayne—that’s how I knew it was you—and saying “why?” Couldn’t really catch that part. Anyway, I tried to get you to tell me where you were ‘cause you were in no condition to be on the roads, but you mumbled that I should do something anatomically impossible to myself—I’m paraphrasing here—and dropped the phone. Luckily, somebody passing by picked it up and told me you were at The Bear Club.”

  “Cub,” I muttered.

  “Whatever. Anyway, by the time I show up, you were all happy and surprised to see me. So that worked out well. And you very nicely refrained from throwing up in my car.”

  “Did you bring the ice cream bucket?” An unexpected smile bubbled up at the memory.

  “Forgot it. And I didn’t have to lose my keys either. You came willingly.” His smile was decidedly more erotic, and I flushed, making my head throb in triple-time.

  “So what happened, Letty?” He turned serious on me. Serious and gentle. Could I trust it? Could I trust him?

  “It just. . . got to be too much. It kind of caved in, all at once. But I’m okay now. This won’t affect my work.”

  “No, of course not. I didn’t think it would. I expect that’s what set Wayne off.”

  “What did?”

  “You’re a fighter. You don’t give up. That can be an insult to a certain type of man,” he leaned back in his chair. His smile stretched like warm, sweet taffy. “To others, it’s a challenge.”

  “A challenge?” I swallowed. “So, is all this character analysis part of your supervisory duties?”

  “Oh, no. I came up with this on my free-time. Just trying to be helpful.”

  “Uh-huh. Okay, then. As long as you’re being so helpful, how about getting me to my car?”

  He sighed regretfully. “I suppose. You sure you don’t want breakfast?” he said, and then laughed at my expression. Maybe he was evil enough to be a killer.

  A half-hour later, Marshall dropped me off outside Cubs, where my car, abandoned and forlorn, had waited out the night. Nothing had been disturbed. Of course, if Marshall was the Shakespeare stalker, he’d be crazy to vandalize my car when he’d be the prime suspect. On the other hand, my Shakespeare stalker was crazy, so that meant Marshall could be the killer. So I could clearly not choose the wine in front of me. . .

  I was having Princess Bride flashbacks.

  After making sure my car started, he waved, and we drove off in opposite directions.

  When I got home, I found Blodgett’s business card sticking out of my door frame. On the back, he’d written “Call me” with his cell phone number. I’d forgotten that I’d called Blodgett before unwrapping the knife. The murder weapon. The weapon Blodgett had questioned me about, that I’d denied knowledge of, that was now covered in what I could only assume was Wayne’s blood. With Blodgett’s bloodhound instincts, he’d probably scented the incriminating evidence through the door. Would he believe me if I told him the real killer had left it as a little present? In my glove box? Wisconsin didn’t have the death penalty, but I had no illusions about my ability to survive prison. My heart thudded dully. Ma was right. Cops could get you killed.

  Locking the door behind me, I stood staring at the knife and sonnet lying in plain view on my coffee table. If I turned the knife over to the cops, as I very much wanted to do, I’d catapult myself to the top of Blodgett’s suspect list. If I wasn’t already in the lead position to begin with.

  With so much going on, I didn’t know what to panic over first, but I was pretty sure panic was a reasonable response. It came easily. Unfortunately, hyperventilating and running in dithery circles did very little in the nature of problem-solving. The bloody knife still gleamed evilly at me from the kitchen table, the cops suspected me in my stalker’s murder while I suspected my hunky boss of that same murder, and I’d apparently acquired a second, more schizoid stalker who carried attention seeking to a homicidal level. Plus, I was going to have to confess my relapse to Sue and that might be the scariest issue yet.

  I reverted to the Serenity Prayer.

  What could I change? I couldn’t change what the police thought, and I couldn’t figure out whether Marshall was involved or not. At least not yet. I couldn’t change the fact that somebody was sending me psychotic presents.

  The knife. It was the only thing I had any influence over. I almost curled up in the fetal position at my next thought: I had to get rid of it. I didn’t want to destroy it or lose it irretrievably; it was still evidence in a murder, even if Wayne was the victim. But right now it would only implicate me, which was probably what the real killer hoped for. A search warrant would likely cover my apartment and office. Probably my car, too. I needed to hide the knife somewhere that I would have access to, if needed. Somewhere that wouldn’t involve or implicate anyone else. And somewhere that Blodgett wouldn’t look.

  Or couldn’t look.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  I made it to the office just before closing. Mary Kate manned the desk, as she often did on Saturdays. She lit up when I came in.

  “What’s new, Gazoo?” she greeted me. No, really. She did.

  “Oh, nothing much. I just had some reports to finish up.” I edged my way toward my office.

  “Really? On a Saturday? You don’t usually come in. And, no offense, but you don’t look so hot.”

  “I think I’m coming down with the flu. So I wanted to finish up these reports in case I get sick. Sicker, I mean. Next week.”

  I gave her credit; she honestly tried to follow the convoluted crap I’d just rattled off. Her face scrunched in an origami of confusion from the effort. The hangover had obviously weakened my lying powers. Or maybe sobriety had.

  Locking myself in my office, I dug a copy of the sonnet and the buck knife out of my purse. I pulled a sheaf of intake forms from my desk. What I was doing was probably against some licensing regulation. I hesitated. Then with a snort, I realized that was the very least of my worries and got busy doctoring up a false client file.

  I blanked at the very first question: name. The trick was coming up with one that I’d remember later after, hopefully, things cleared up. A possibility floated up from the fog. Larry Harmon, aka “Bozo the Clown.” One of the names Wayne had used to sabotage my client schedule. Seemed fitting; I’d always been terrified of clowns.

  I plunked a red circle sticker indicating inactive on the tab next to Harmon, Lawrence and shoved the knife in. I’d left one copy of the sonnet at home, so I added the other to the file. Blodgett would get the original.

  Except for a soft murmur of voices coming from Carol’s office, the clinic was quiet. I couldn’t tell if Mary Kate was still up front, but only a few minutes remained until Carol’s session was over a
nd the clinic closed for the day. I’d have to chance it.

  Luckily, the front was empty. My heart trip-hammered erratically as I tiptoed across the reception area to the dark file room. The lights had been turned off in preparation of closing, and I assumed Mary Kate was using the bathroom adjoining the lobby area.

  Flipping the light on, I hurried over to the “H” section. Instead of cabinets, the files were arranged on shelves stretching the perimeter of the small room. A toilet flushed next door, and I nearly plastered the ceiling with my armful of camouflage files. A leetle jumpy. And if it was Mary Kate in the potty, I only had moments before she returned to run the front desk.

  Grabbing the Harmon file, I shoved it between Harland, Lois and Harstaad, Kenneth, two people I’d never heard of, but whose deepest secrets now bracketed my own. I heard the bathroom door swish open at the same time as the remaining stack of legitimate client records slithered from my shaking hands.

  Mary Kate, co-dependent senses tuned to subliminal frequencies, stuck a helpful face around the corner.

  “Whoa! Need some help?”

  “No, no. I’ve got it.” Too late, though. She was already on her knees in the middle of the paper heap, sorting names and making piles. I lowered myself to the floor, struggling to look normal. My hands shook like castanets, stale, booze-scented sweat patches ringed my pits and streaked the back of my shirt as I worked hard to keep from throwing up in Mary Kate’s lap. “Normal” was a stretch.

  Lucky for me, shaking, sweating, pale, and disoriented fit with my earlier story of illness and Mary Kate chattered on about the efficacy of chicken soup versus tea with honey. I tried to disconnect from the food talk. After I gagged ominously a couple times, she took the hint and changed the subject. Even better, she sent me home, promising to assemble the scattered records into their appropriate jackets.

  Weak and done in, I let her push me out the door.

  At least at home I could puke and shake in private. Throughout the afternoon, panic competed against remorse for the honor of being named Most Over-Powering Emotion. For the most part, they ran neck-and-neck, making me both fear for my life and hate it.

  I’d gotten drunk again. Shame and bile undulated in slow, feverish waves through my body every time a memory of the night before rose to the surface. And recall it, I did. The parts I hadn’t blacked out, that is. In an orgy of self-disgust, I examined my failure, moment by moment, picking mercilessly at each instance of weakness, exposing them to the harsh light of the day after.

  All this insight made me want to get drunk.

  Well, hell. That wasn’t working. I sighed, rolled off the couch, and headed for the shower. At least I could clean up the outside self. Afterward, I wrapped up in the ugliest, most comfortable garment I owned—my old bathrobe—thus satisfying both needs of punishment and comfort.

  I was a mess.

  I had to call Sue, but I decided to wait until she was at the Saturday night meeting. I’d leave a message, face her tomorrow.

  Besides, there were other issues—life or death issues—that were even more pressing. If indeed some crazy freak had me in his sights, I’d jeopardized more than just my sobriety, precious though that was. Drunk, I’d left myself completely vulnerable. The fact remained that I didn’t know who had been standing in Wayne’s shadow, didn’t know who had used Wayne’s harassment as a decoy for his own sly invasion. I wasn’t even sure how to differentiate between the two.

  I could avoid it no longer. I had to face the question that had catapulted me to the bar last night. It—and booze—would kill me if I didn’t.

  Was Marshall that crazy freak?

  It was true that he had rifles at his cabin, but so did nearly everyone in northern Wisconsin. Hunting was as common as cheese and beer, and if a person wasn’t an avid hunter, he was guaranteed to know someone who was. Or, not to be sexist, “she.” Screw fashion. Come November, there would be plenty of women perched on a couple of jerry-rigged planks nailed to the branches of an oak, wearing blaze orange and eau de la deer pee. My own dad had taken me out a time or two, but after hiking three miles through dense bracken in the crisp air, I ate all the candy and fell asleep in the tree-stand. Shortly followed by falling out of the stand. Not an endearing father-daughter moment.

  The study of Shakespearean sonnets, on the other hand, was not a particularly regional pastime. Which is not to say that Wisconsinites are a bunch of backwoods hicks; as a whole, however, we gravitated more toward Thoreau and the pond experiment. Not only had Marshall admitted that he’d studied English literature in college, but he was familiar enough to recognize the sonnets in an unusual context.

  Would he have brought that to my attention if he really was guilty, though? Or was his admission a covert message, a code, that he expected me to pick up on? The electricity between us fairly crackled at times, but hadn’t he initiated it? Though I tried, I couldn’t recall any flirtatiousness prior to Wayne’s attack. Perhaps the incident triggered something? If so, was it as simple as a white knight complex—not unusual for males in the mental health field—or as sinister as an opportunist preying on a victim’s vulnerabilities? Did he feel protective of me, or possessive?

  I didn’t know.

  The white rectangle of Blodgett’s business card caught my attention again. I could put off calling Sue, but the detective was another matter. He’d be wondering about my hysterical message, and it would look strange if I waited too much longer. Plus, if I was a suspect, it wouldn’t help to appear uncooperative or evasive. Fighting against that common sense rationale, every fiber of my alcoholic nature screamed to run, hide, ignore, deny.

  Drink.

  Maybe I’d call Sue first after all.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  She picked me up and hauled me to a meeting. I couldn’t stand the thought of running into Robert so we went to an Open Speaker meeting two towns over. At least I didn’t have to share tonight, but five minutes after the speaker stepped down I realized I hadn’t heard a word he’d said. It was probably inspirational, uplifting even, but I spaced the whole thing, instead pondering if I was about to be arrested for Wayne’s murder and whether prison orange would make my skin look sallow.

  Sue’s attitude surprised me. Given her usual orneriness, I’d been prepared for wrath on a biblical scale. Instead, she maintained a sympathetic matter-of-factness that left me alternating between relief and bouts of spasmodic flinching if she moved too abruptly. I didn’t altogether trust her nice side.

  Afterward, she took me out for coffee and pie. I ended up confessing everything except where I’d hidden the knife. The telling of it made me queasy and I pushed my plate away. Apparently, nothing short of murder—her own, that is—could turn Sue off of her pie. It was a raspberry cream cheese, so I kind of understood. She did slow down and acquire a pensive look, however.

  “There can’t ever be an excuse for relapsing, but damn,” she said, “you sure push the limits, girl.”

  “I’ve always been an overachiever,” I said.

  “So, what you’re telling me is that you’re a murder suspect, somebody even crazier than Wayne is stalking you, and you think it might be your boss with the cute butt.”

  I buried my face in my hands. “And I think I’m being framed. And I’m a drunk.”

  “That, too,” Sue said. “But I don’t get the knife part. First, it’s there; then, it’s missing. The cops can’t find it and nobody else seems to have, either. Then after Wayne gets shot, they’re asking about his knife? What the hell is going on? Put your head up and think.”

  Reluctantly, I complied. “It’s crazy. Carrie’s mom was really clear about finding Wayne shot.” I swallowed against the image that rose to mind when I recalled Edna’s description. Waving a quivery hand around my ear, I said, “She specifically talked about… his head.” I gagged. Sue pulled my pie over to her side.

  I pulled it back. It was lemon meringue, after all. The nausea would pass.

  “So, if he’s shot, why ask about
the knife? And what’s the knife doing showing up on your doorstep?”

  “The bloody knife,” I whispered. “What? Did whoever shoot him…?” I made “Psycho” stabbing motions at my pie.

  Sue grimaced, finally pushing her plate away. It was scraped clean enough to serve to the next customer, but the symbolism of repugnance was still there. Pointless, but there.

  “Okay, well, how did he get the knife? The police couldn’t even find it.”

  I’d been thinking about this. “Either Wayne had it on him when he was killed and the shooter took and used it after Wayne died, or it was someone who was in position to pick it up after the initial attack at the clinic, before the police could.”

  “Marshall,” Sue pointed out the obvious.

  I shrugged, not wanting to voice the thought. I pulled the pie closer, twining my fork through the yellow and white goo. Sue sighed.

  “So, are you looking for a stalker or a killer, or is that the same person?”

  Good question.

  “It would be an awfully big coincidence to have a killer trying to frame me and a stalker trying to. . . well, stalk me.”

  “It all depends on the knife,” Sue said. “If the knife was involved in Wayne’s murder, then the killer and stalker would have to be the same person. The sonnet and the knife were part of a package deal, so to speak. But if the knife has no connection to Wayne’s death, then, I suppose, it’s possible that there are two separate people involved. After all, the blood could be anyone’s, and we don’t know for sure that Wayne was stabbed.”

  “Then where did the blood come from?” I asked. “And why was Blodgett focusing on the knife? He spent as much time on that as on the gun. Why would it show up all bloody and wrapped up in some psycho poetry about death and desire if it wasn’t connected?”

  We sat mulling over the many questions for a bit.