3 Can You Picture This?

by Jerilyn Dufresne

  He seemed to relax and put his hand down.

  “What I said before still holds true. I love you. I love you a lot.” He ran his hand through his thinning hair. “But you drive me crazy.”

  He walked over, sat on the bed, and patted for me to sit as well.

  “I do want you to get help. Your impulsiveness has gotten worse since we’ve been together.” He covered my hand with his. “I hope it has nothing to do with me, but I suspect it might.”

  I wanted to talk but waited for a few seconds to make sure he was done.

  “I don’t know why I’m doing this. I know that it could be sabotaging our relationship, and trust me, it’s the last thing I want to do. You are the best guy I’ve ever known, and certainly the best guy I’ve ever dated.”

  He gave a rueful smile.

  I continued, “And whether or not you stay with me, I promise I will see someone for therapy to figure this out.”

  “Stop it. Stop it now.” He stood, and there was uncharacteristic anger in his voice, and his face was beet red as he said, “Every damn time there’s a problem you think I’m going to leave you. Stop it. I AM NOT JOE! I’m not going to leave you. When I say I love you, I mean I love you. You. With every fault, with every good thing, with every laugh, with every tear, with every impulsive and stupid move. I love you.”

  By then I was bawling. I didn’t deserve him. Even when he was saying that he’d never leave me, he was not a weakling. He was a man. A real man who knew what it took to make a relationship work.

  “Why haven’t you ever been married?” I said, changing the subject, and wiping the tears and snot off my face with a handkerchief George handed me. “I mean, I think you are the best catch there is. Why haven’t you ever gotten married?”

  “Guess I was waiting for you.”

  The answer thrilled me, but there had to be more than that.

  “Have you ever been engaged?”

  “Kind of. Not really. Well maybe. Yes.”

  Surprised, I said, “It doesn’t sound definite.”

  “It was on my part, I thought. Not on hers. She wore my ring, but wasn’t committed to the relationship. I don’t really want to talk about it.”

  “Okay. Was it someone I knew? Was she pretty? How long ago was this? Do you still think about her?” I was breathless from my questioning.

  Finally, George smiled. Then he laughed. “There’s my Sam.”

  “We’re going out,” Sarah yelled from the other room.

  “Clancy’s going with us,” was Adam’s contribution. “So we’ll all be…‌you know…‌out.”

  “For a while,” Sarah said. I heard the leash being clipped to Clancy’s collar and the door slam as they left together. I looked at the man I loved.

  George grinned at me and then kissed me. And then we made up in the best way we knew how.

  It wasn’t even noon and it was already my favorite birthday ever.

  Later, I stared at the ceiling and thought about how I had been acting. I’ll talk to Marian Dougherty in the morning. Marian was also a therapist at the Quincy Community Clinic. I’d met her on my first day as she helped clear out the office where my boss had been murdered. Yeah. She’ll be good. I’ll talk to her tomorrow.

  Then my mind went back to the argument with George. It came back to me that before I’d told him to leave, he’d said that he didn’t know if he “could do this anymore.”

  He was dozing but I tapped him on the shoulder. More than once. Finally he opened his eyes, saw my face near his, and smiled. Then he must have noticed my quizzical look.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “I’m not trying to start an argument, but I think we left something unfinished.” I took my time so I didn’t say anything stupid. “You said, ‘I can’t do this anymore,’ while looking at me. What did you mean?” I was careful that my tone wasn’t accusatory.

  He hesitated, then said, “I don’t think I’m ready to talk about it now. But just know it had nothing to do with breaking up with you.” He took my chin in his hand, and gently kissed me.

  “Okay. I trust you.” I kissed him back. “And I want you to know I’m talking to a therapist tomorrow at work, and I’ll set something up. Would you be willing to come in for a session sometime later?”

  “Sure, but why?”

  “Well, it’s often helpful for a couple to meet with an objective third party to work out some kinks. It may not be necessary, but just in case it is, I’m glad you said yes.”

  I sat up, and started toward the shower. I’d been surprised with my party this morning, and hadn’t even brushed my teeth.

  I turned around, and said, “It’s tough when a therapist needs a therapist. But it happens all the time. We’re human. However, it will be hard for me to allow someone else to help me through this, since I know all the techniques she’s likely to use. And I’m a little stubborn.” At that I was rewarded with a grin from George. “But I’m going to do it. You are worth it.” I paused and smiled. “We are worth it.”

  When I’d finished my shower, I found George in the living room watching ESPN. I figured it was time to get back to the murders, so I did.

  “Honey,” I said, “I’m going to get on the computer for a while. Okay?”

  “Sure. It’s your birthday,” he said, with his face still directed toward the TV. “But later, I have plans for us.”

  I went over and hugged him, then set up my laptop on the small dining room table that sometimes doubled as my desk. I could see George from there, and my heart leaped as I noted how perfectly he fit here. Right on my couch. Watching TV. And every now and then he would turn and smile at me.

  If my life were a musical, as I’d often wished it were, this would be the moment to break out into song.

  Finally pulling myself back to reality, I decided that I’d had enough distractions for the day. Back to the mystery at hand.

  I pulled up Google and did a search on Richie Klingman. He’d gone to GCHS, as I’d anticipated. It hit me that I still didn’t know the names of the two dead guys.

  “Hey, George, did you ever get the names of the guys who were murdered?”

  “Yeah. I don’t have the info handy. Check out the Whig online.” Our local paper had gone with a digital edition as well as their paper one. So I did a search and came up with the names.

  “Did they identify them with imprints of their teeth?”

  “Yep,” he said, finally turning away from the tube for a moment. “Everything is accessible nowadays.” He turned back right away, lest he miss some statistic. I loved sports and yelled at games with the best of them. But all the stats bored me.

  I turned my attention from the bigger screen to the little screen before me. I plugged in the first of the three names I got from the Whig, John Delacourt. He was from Quincy and went to St. Francis High School. Creighton Jameson was next. He and his family moved here when he was in high school, and he also went to SFHS. So two out of three went to St. Francis. Richie was the only one of the three from GC. They all graduated the same year, so they probably knew each other. That didn’t give me any information that helped with the blue hoodie notion. But I could check it out with Richie whether he knew the other two or not.

  I decided to delve some more. The obituary for Delacourt stated he played football, basketball, and baseball for SFHS.

  “An all-around jock,” I said aloud. I looked over at George to make sure that my talking hadn’t disturbed him.

  Some of the same information surfaced when I looked at Jameson’s obit. He had played basketball and baseball for SFHS. It also said donations in his memory could be made to the local arm of the American Cancer Society. Jameson was the guy we assumed was the murderer, and according to the Coroner’s report, his cancer was so far advanced that he would have lived for only a few days longer if he hadn’t taken his own life.

  I thought that Richie himself had played soccer, or wrestled or something, for GC, but I wasn’t sure. I could check with him
on that too.

  The stuff I learned online was interesting, but it didn’t get me any closer to figuring out the mystery of the blue hoodie. Or the reason Creighton Jameson killed Delacourt, tried to kill Richie, and then killed himself. A suicide didn’t surprise me, if Jameson was that ill, but I couldn’t see him killing the other two. At least I couldn’t come up with the reason. A little more snooping might help.

  Whoever killed Delacourt, and I assumed it was Jameson, had pushed the knife in below the heart and then angled it upward so that it ended up in the heart. But when he’d stabbed Richie, he missed the heart because of the dextrocardia. Why did he make Richie hold on to the knife itself? He hadn’t done that with Jameson. Maybe he’d wanted people to think Richie had killed the first guy and then committed suicide.

  Lots of questions…‌and no real answers. My vibes were dormant again. They usually came to life only when I was around a criminal, or sometimes around a victim or a clue. Nothing today. Nada.

  I had an idea.

  “I’d like to take a walk.”

  “What?” George asked, still engrossed in a show about the Cardinals, and how they were doing in the pennant race.

  “I’d like to take a walk.”

  “Okay, I’ll go with you.” I knew he just said that because it was my birthday. He normally didn’t take walks with me.

  “I’ll go by myself. It’s kind of relaxing to walk without Clancy every now and then. I’ll be back in a little while. Just walking in the neighborhood.”

  He nodded. I grabbed my cell phone and went to the door.

  “I think I’ll stop by work for a minute and see if Marian happens to be there.” We often went in on our off time to catch up on paperwork. There was always a lot to do.

  George wisely didn’t say anything but, “Have a nice walk.” Surprisingly, he didn’t act like I needed a guard.

  As soon as I got past Gus and Georgianne’s house I dialed 411 and got the number of Creighton Jameson’s wife. The operator connected me “at no extra charge,” and I waited impatiently for someone to answer as I walked slowly down Maine Street.

  “Hello,” a soft voice finally said.

  After finding out this was indeed Mrs. Jameson, Enid Jameson, I introduced myself and asked if I could stop by.

  “I guess so,” she said, “but why do you want to talk to me. Do I know you?”

  “No, ma’am. But I’m working as a consultant with the police, and I’d like to talk to you. It will just be a few minutes, I promise.” I crossed my fingers as I fibbed. It would all be worth it if I figured out the solution to these murders.

  She acquiesced and I told her I’d be there in about an hour or so if that was convenient. It was.

  I kept walking until I hit the Quincy Community Clinic, located between 14th and 16th on Maine. I used my key. The lobby was empty, but I heard soft noises that let me know there were some people in the big house.

  I walked to the other side of the converted house to see if Marian was busy. Her door was open and she was at her desk doing paperwork, her height hidden behind her desk. She looked up as I began to speak. After we exchanged hellos, I got to the reason for my visit.

  “Marian, I wonder if you’d be kind enough to be my therapist?”

  “Of course,” she said as she stood to come nearer. “I have time now if it’s an emergency.” She towered over me, but I didn’t feel intimidated by her. Her kind face made her height irrelevant.

  “It’s not an emergency, but it is kind of urgent. Something is causing a lot of trouble in my life, and I’d like to talk about it.”

  Marian ushered me in and closed the door.

  “Since we don’t have clients today, now would be perfect.”

  I sighed and a tear escaped. Once I started I couldn’t stop. I spent the next 45 minutes giving her details on all my faults, primarily my impulsivity, and when I left her office I had a huge smile on my face.

  How could she do that? How could she figure it out in less than an hour?

  Of course I diagnosed people myself within 53 minutes, the traditional therapy hour. I wondered how many people walked out of my office as happy as I walked out of Marian’s.

  I left a note for myself to ask Clara to schedule another appointment with Marian for the following week. I wanted Marian to be able to “get credit” for seeing me, plus my insurance would pay for it. If I told my clients that there was no shame in seeing a therapist, then I needed to live that myself.

  “I am happy. My life is good,” I said aloud as I exited the Clinic.

  I remained amazed that such a short period of time could make this significant a difference in my attitude. But it did. And I couldn’t wait to tell George. And all my brothers and sisters who had teased me for years.

  I walked down to 14th and Maine and turned right. Enid lived in a large home converted into apartments on 14th and Hampshire, so it was a short jaunt.

  I knocked on the appropriate door, and it was answered by a teenage boy. He had a sad or sullen face, I couldn’t tell which, but after I introduced myself and asked for his mother, he stepped aside so I could enter.

  “Mom, she’s here.” A quick yell brought Mrs. Jameson to the foyer. She was dressed informally in jeans and what might have been one of her husband’s dress shirts.

  “Please come in,” was all she said, as she led me to the living room.

  She indicated that I should sit, and asked, “Why are you here?”

  Saying no to an offer of tea or coffee, I said, “I consult with the police on certain cases,” a little white lie. “And I have a few questions to ask about your husband’s death.” I didn’t say suicide on purpose. First of all, it’s a word fraught with emotion and judgment. Secondly, I wasn’t totally convinced he had committed suicide. It wasn’t anything that anyone told me. It was just a feeling.

  After saying a few things to make her a little more comfortable, I was ready to approach the subject.

  “Enid,” she’d told me to call her that, “I want to ask how Creighton died.”

  At her almost imperceptible nod, I continued, “Do you believe Creighton killed himself?”

  Damn, the waterworks started. Normally, my straightforward approach worked well. This time, not so much.

  “I’m sorry, Enid. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

  “No, no, it’s okay,” she said. “It’s just that you’re the first person to ask that since the police. Everyone just assumes it was suicide, and…”

  “And…‌what?” I asked, tired of waiting.

  “And…‌I don’t think he killed himself.”

  EIGHTEEN

  She looked around as if she didn’t want anyone to hear her.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Just what I said. I don’t think he committed suicide.” At that she looked around again, and her voice dipped even lower. “I think Creighton was killed.”

  “Did he have any enemies that you knew of?”

  “Not what you would call enemies,” she shook her head as she answered. “I don’t know if everyone loved him or not, but I’m pretty sure no one hated him enough to do this. No. It can’t be someone we knew. Except…”

  “Except what?”

  She hesitated before continuing. And sent her son to the kitchen for a glass of water.

  “Except he only had a few days, maybe a week, to live.”

  “I’m aware of that. The coroner’s report said as much. Do you think he might have killed himself to spare you a drawn out suffering and death?”

  “No. I’m sure of this. He was a fine Christian man. He would never, under any circumstances, kill himself. We’d even talked about it. He told me he would never do it.”

  I thanked her for her time, expressed my condolences, and walked back toward my house. What if her words were true? What if Creighton Jameson hadn’t killed himself?

  That meant the killer was still out there. That meant the guy who ran from Clancy and me was probably the killer, and
not a prankster.

  George was going to kill me when he found out what I was up to. I knew it. At least he would if the killer didn’t do it first.

  Suddenly frightened for the first time, I ran a few blocks. By the time I opened my door and stepped inside I was out of breath and hot.

  “Omigod, Sam. What’s wrong?” George had jumped up at my entrance. He walked to the door and picked me up, no mean feat. He lay me on the couch and put his hand on my forehead. “You have a fever.”

  “No, I don’t,” I said as I tried to sit up. He pushed me back down and I tried again to sit up. This went on like a bad Three Stooges movie. Finally, I pushed him away and succeeded in sitting. “I’m fine, I promise. I just ran a few blocks, that’s all.”

  He sat on the edge of the couch, but didn’t take his eyes off me.

  “Why did you run? Exercise?”

  “Yeah.” Another white lie. “Exercise.”

  “Well, I don’t believe you.” His handsome face said the same things as his words. “Now tell me the truth.”

  He knew me. And wasn’t afraid to challenge me.

  “The truth is that I don’t think Creighton Jameson killed himself, and neither does his wife.”

  “What do you mean?”

  So I told him. I left nothing out, except the fact that I was now a little bit afraid. Well, maybe a lot afraid. But I didn’t want to be under house arrest or protective custody or whatever. How could I solve this murder for George if I couldn’t continue my investigation? So I didn’t mention the fact that I was probably still in danger.

  But that wasn’t all of it. There was something else, nagging me. Something else besides the blue hoodie. My vibes were vibrating, trying to tell me something. I just couldn’t bring it to the surface.

  At that point my kids walked back in and Clancy bounded over to me. I hadn’t seen as much of her as usual since the kids had been home, and since George and I became a thing. I hugged her and didn’t let go, putting my head against hers. She could tell something was wrong, and didn’t leave my side.