by Jill Shure
Arlene nodded, her eyes anxiously following the book.
&ldquoYou okay?&rdquo I asked.
&ldquoI&rsquom fine,&rdquo she snapped. &ldquoWhy does everyone keep asking me that?&rdquo
&ldquoI guess because you seem so unhappy,&rdquo I said, struggling to keep my voice steady.
She abruptly stood. &ldquoI&rsquom fine,&rdquo she repeated. &ldquoI just thought this would look good on you.&rdquo She tossed a sweater at me and marched out.
I studied the pale blue sweater with its metallic threads. &ldquoArlene wait,&rdquo I called. She turned. &ldquoThanks for thinking of me. I just can&rsquot wear her stuff. It gives me the creeps.&rdquo I handed her the sweater.
Arlene nodded. But her face was a mask of misery. &ldquoLook, there&rsquos something I need to tell you. But not here. Maybe we can meet later. Have dinner.&rdquo
&ldquoSure. I&rsquoll call you.&rdquo
With a solemn nod, she left.
When her footsteps faded, I slipped the envelopes out of the book. After putting the book back, I stuffed the letters into the new Vogue magazine I&rsquod helped myself to off the dining room table. The magazine, one of a half dozen, had been buried under a pile of mail waiting for an occupant who&rsquod never see it. I briefly worried that the letters might be evidence. I wondered how the police had missed them. But the police had a free run of Courtney&rsquos condo for over a month. So, if they&rsquod missed these letters, it was their tough luck.
By now, Courtney&rsquos closets and drawers had been stripped bare. My friends had divided up her things from her fur coats to her lingerie. If Courtney was staring down from heaven, or peering up from hell, she wasn&rsquot smiling.
&ldquoWould someone mind checking her storage unit? I just don&rsquot have the strength,&rdquo Aunt Perdith announced, piling papers and things in a large carton.
&ldquoBut isn&rsquot that where&mdash&rdquo Tabitha began.
&ldquoNo, no. I&rsquove been told that the storage unit was nowhere near the garage,&rdquo Aunt Perdith explained.
&ldquoI&rsquoll go. I was on my way out anyway,&rdquo Arlene volunteered.
&ldquoI&rsquoll go with you,&rdquo I announced, thinking she might want company.
Arlene seemed distracted lately. Whenever I called, she sounded exhausted, drunk, or depressed. I decided, that as her best friend, it was time to step in. Maybe she&rsquod had a bad pap smear or found a lump on her breast.
Outside, we passed the very garage where Courtney had been burned. An image endlessly played on TV. Black soot still covered the stucco nearby. And police tape had been stretch over the scarred garage door. I couldn&rsquot take my eyes off the place. A place of evil, where someone had doused Courtney&rsquos lifeless body in oil and set her on fire.
A minute later, we found the storage unit. Arlene opened the locker and flipped on the light switch. We surveyed the tiny room. Nothing but a few beach chairs stacked on the grey concrete floor. Arlene grabbed them and headed out the door. But once outside, Arlene paused by a car and put the chairs down. Biting her lip, she said, &ldquoI need to tell you something. It&rsquos been on my mind since Courtney disappeared. I meant to tell you a dozen times. But I wasn&rsquot sure how you&rsquod take it. Like maybe you wouldn&rsquot be my friend anymore.&rdquo For the first time in many years, tears filled her eyes.
&ldquoArlene, what is it?&rdquo I asked.
&ldquoHurry up, you two,&rdquo a voice rang out.
Startled, we turned.
&ldquoWe&rsquore all going to lunch,&rdquo Tabitha yelled.
&ldquoBe right there,&rdquo I yelled. I turned to Arlene. &ldquoI&rsquoll call you. It&rsquoll be more private that way.&rdquo
Around four, after a quiet lunch at a local Chinese restaurant where Aunt Perdith refused to try anything but chop suey, we all said goodbye and headed out.
Lisa and I didn&rsquot speak until we reached the freeway.
&ldquoI just hope Aunt Perdith doesn&rsquot suddenly realize what she&rsquos given away,&rdquo Lisa admitted. &ldquoBy the way, I found this in one of Courtney&rsquos handbags.&rdquo She handed me a letter. &ldquoRead it when you get home. Then call me.&rdquo
&ldquoWhat is it?&rdquo
&ldquoA letter.&rdquo
I studied the envelope, the stamp, and handwriting. This time the author had included a return address. Arlene&rsquos.
11
At home, Sofia was sprawled across the living room rug watching Oprah with a Coke and a bag of potato chips by her.
&ldquoHungry?&rdquo I asked.
&ldquoNah, I&rsquom stuffed.&rdquo
I sighed. I lacked the energy for a major confrontation over Sofia&rsquos eating habits. Besides, I couldn&rsquot wait to read Courtney&rsquos letters. &ldquoAs soon as this show ends, get started on your homework. Okay?&rdquo
Sofia shot me a dirty look then nodded. And when the show ended a few minutes later, she instantly shut off the TV and trotted to her room without an argument. A moment later, I heard music. Tiptoeing to her door, I peered in and saw her sitting in bed, her hand stuck in a bag of jelly beans, her head between the pages of a textbook.
Relieved, I hurried into my own room, shut the door, and settled on my bed with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and Courtney&rsquos letters. The pile included letters written in several different hands. Which amazed me since I hadn&rsquot gotten a real letter from anyone since my grandmother died. Not surprising considering the popularity of email and cell phones. At last I pulled out the plain white envelope with Arlene&rsquos handwriting. The one Lisa had given me. I quickly read it.
Dear Courtney:
Why haven&rsquot you called me back? I&rsquove left a dozen messages on your machine, and I&rsquom going crazy. I&rsquom sorry if I seemed insensitive about your uncle trying to steal your trust fund. I mean, what&rsquos ten thousand dollars to me? Especially if we&rsquore going to spend the rest of our lives together. You&rsquore welcome to anything that&rsquos mine. Because that&rsquos what being together is about.
I just want us to go away, like we planned. I want to hold hands on the beach and drink exotic drinks. I can&rsquot stop dreaming about how wonderful it&rsquoll be.
Please call me as soon as you get this.
All my love, Arlene
&ldquoI feel so strange,&rdquo I told Lisa the next morning in her office. &ldquoEvery time I bitched about Courtney, Arlene was right beside me like Tonto.&rdquo
&ldquoWell, Kemo Sabe, it looks like Tonto had a secret love life. And as big a motive as anyone else caught in Courtney&rsquos web.&rdquo
&ldquoDid you ever suspect Arlene might be gay&mdashI mean, before this?&rdquo I asked.
&ldquoThe first time we met. Face it, we all did. But then she got married, so I guess I never thought about it much. Until now,&rdquo Lisa said.
&ldquoBisexual would be more accurate. I know at least four guys she dated,&rdquo I said, needing to defend Arlene as always.
&ldquoWhat about Courtney? Think she was gay or&mdash&rdquo
&ldquoI think she was open to anything or anyone who could pay her,&rdquo I said.
&ldquoWhat about the rest of the letters? Anyone else we know who wrote her?&rdquo
&ldquoNot so far. No letters from Ken, thank God. But there were other men who got in real deep. Guys ready to sell their souls for her.&rdquo
&ldquoMaybe you should call Arlene and tell her what you know. You could reassure her that it doesn&rsquot matter,&rdquo Lisa advised.
&ldquoGood idea. Except ...&rdquo
&ldquoWhat?&rdquo
&ldquoShe had the same motive as the others who sold their souls to Courtney.&rdquo
Later, in the middle of digging through my work mail and ruminating on what I&rsquod just discovered about Arlene, my desk phone rang.
&ldquoHow about dinner tomorrow?&rdquo Arlene said. &ldquoWe could order pizza or go out somewhere.&rdquo
&ldquoCan&rsquot. I have an evening appointment,&rdquo I said, glad it was the truth. Usually I&rsquod suggest lunch or dinner the next day. Or I&rsquod
bitch about work, or Ken, or Sofia. This time I didn&rsquot.
Arlene instantly picked up on my silence. &ldquoCatch ya later,&rdquo she said in a hoarse voice, before hanging up.
I felt sick. Arlene was no idiot. She knew I was avoiding her. And possibly the reason why, since she&rsquod caught me going through Courtney&rsquos letters. Yet I couldn&rsquot get the image of Courtney and Arlene out of my head. I not only pictured Arlene&rsquos head between Courtney&rsquos tanned thighs, but I also imagined Arlene&rsquos large, powerful hands wrapped around Courtney&rsquos throat as she banged Courtney&rsquos head against a rock. Not that I actually believed Arlene had killed Courtney. But I needed to settle things in my head before I spoke to her about what I&rsquod discovered.
Later that afternoon, as I dropped my stuff in the car, I realized I still hadn&rsquot mailed Courtney&rsquos black book to the police.
The next day, I met Dr. Spunkhoffer for lunch at the Del Mar Fish Market, a large noisy place with the rustic look of an old ship. When I arrived, he already had a table in back. Crossing the long room, I had time to study him. Extremely short. Soft blue shirt. Pink faced and freshly shaved. Hair slicked back. He looked positively creepy, like a large child with a receding hairline. Or a baby-faced adult. He noticed me heading toward him and stood. The top of his head reached my chin.
After our awkward greeting, we sat down and ordered.
&ldquoI&rsquoll have baked clams and the tilapia,&rdquo I told the waitress.
&ldquoTea. Just tea,&rdquo Spunkhoffer said.
&ldquoAny special kind?&rdquo the waitress asked.
&ldquoJust ... regular tea will do.&rdquo
&ldquoSo how&rsquove you been?&rdquo I asked.
He studied me for an uncomfortably long time. I figured this might be part of his therapeutic approach. A way to dominate his patients. Which couldn&rsquot be easy for a guy under five foot four who wore his pants up around his armpits.
At last, after a sip of tea, he began to sputter out bits of what I&rsquod come to hear.
&ldquo... and I have never discussed a patient until now. Living or dead. But she ... she ...&rdquo he shook his head, unable to go on.
I crammed a piece of buttered sourdough in my mouth and waited.
Tears sprang into his nervous little eyes.
I finally said, &ldquoLook, I know you were her shrink and this is hard for you.&rdquo And I&rsquove seen those incriminating photos of you. &ldquoBut anything you could tell me would help.&rdquo
Spunkhoffer glanced around nervously as if he suspected Courtney might be hiding behind a post or hidden in a booth, watching, listening.
&ldquoYou must understand that my reputation is everything. This is a congested area for doctors. One bad word or whiff of scandal and I&rsquod be finished. Courtney seemed to know everyone,&rdquo he said.
&ldquoAt least in a biblical sense,&rdquo I couldn&rsquot help volunteering.
He cringed, looking stricken. Swallowing, he went on. &ldquoShe knew the kind of people who can spread the word. The type who can afford therapy.&rdquo
&ldquoAre you sure you won&rsquot try a clam? They&rsquore really delicious,&rdquo I said, unable to help from digging in, even if Spunkhoffer had barely managed more than a few sips of watery tea.
&ldquoNo thank you,&rdquo he said soberly. &ldquoI&rsquom not hungry.&rdquo
&ldquoToo upset, huh?&rdquo I knew what an appetite suppressant worry and heartbreak can be.
He bit his lip. His eyes took on a glazed expression. &ldquoI&rsquove never been so frightened in my life. I didn&rsquot sleep for weeks. I canceled her bills, promised her I&rsquod never say a word or put a lien on her property. She still wanted her records expunged.&rdquo
&ldquoExpunged as in wiped clean?&rdquo
He nodded.
&ldquoDid you?&rdquo
He shook his head. &ldquoIt wouldn&rsquot matter. An expert can always find the material embedded in a computer. I once testified at a trial where the computer was used as evidence. Besides, I needed to stand up to her. So I told her I could ruin her, too&mdashif it came to that. But ...&rdquo he covered his face with his hands.
&ldquoYou loved her,&rdquo I said softly.
He nodded, his face awash in tears. &ldquoHeaven help me, I did. I&rsquom no better than any of the others. I ... I&rsquom ashamed of how easily I fell for her. She could be so seductive.&rdquo
The poor guy. &ldquoSo I&rsquove heard.&rdquo
&ldquoLook, I&rsquom no fool, Ms. Ross. I&rsquom aware of my limitations. I&rsquove never fooled myself into believing I&rsquom handsome. But a woman with her looks, her sexuality, well, she was hard to resist.&rdquo He stared down at the polished wood table. &ldquoBut she was a deeply disturbed human being. A seductress who used her talents to hurt people. To extract money and get revenge.&rdquo
Which was why Courtney had lived by the ocean in La Jolla and I lived in Fashion Valley.
&ldquoI lived with this over my head for a good year,&rdquo he said. &ldquoSo as wrong as it seems, I&rsquom relieved she&rsquos dead. Because she can&rsquot hurt anyone now. Her honeyed exterior hid the morals of a dangerous sociopath.&rdquo
This little guy had been terrified. And he looked as though Courtney could&rsquove whipped him with a dirty look. But Dr. Davy Spunkhoffer had brains.
&ldquoLook, I doubt anyone suspects you,&rdquo I said. &ldquoBut there must&rsquove been other men she pushed around who wanted to strike back. Was there a particular victim? Someone she tormented more than the others?&rdquo
He sighed. &ldquoLet me say this. Anyone who knew her for more than a few dates, a few months, might&rsquove been driven to kill her. She had physical beauty but also an unsurpassed need to control and humiliate people.&rdquo
&ldquoAs well as blackmailing them,&rdquo I said.
&ldquoShe hurt many people. Now I must leave. Or I&rsquoll be late to see my next patient.&rdquo
&ldquoJust one more thing.&rdquo I handed him the photo of Courtney standing naked beside him. The picture I&rsquod taken from Courtney&rsquos bureau. His expression changed from seriously occupied and intelligent to that of a cornered rabbit. He shut his eyes momentarily, then stared at the picture again. &ldquoWhat is it you want? I have nothing to give. I already gave her every nickel I could find.&rdquo
&ldquoYou lied before,&rdquo I said.
&ldquoOf course I lied. Wouldn&rsquot you, if your whole life was about to fall apart because you fell for the wrong person?&rdquo
I thought back to Tommy, Ken, and my first husband. If having bad judgment about the opposite sex was a criminal offense, we&rsquod all be doing time. &ldquoDr. Spunkhoffer, did you kill her?&rdquo
He laughed bitterly. &ldquoI only wish I&rsquod had the courage to. I could&rsquove spared others the pain of knowing her. I&rsquom sorry I lied before about our relationship. But you must believe me, she was my patient. As for the rest ... I&rsquove never done anything like that before or since. She was like a disease.&rdquo He stood. &ldquoNow, if you don&rsquot wish to press charges or do something with that photo, I&rsquod like to have it.&rdquo
I gazed into his sad eyes. He may have been short, but he had stature. I handed him the picture of Courtney. He glanced down at it. Then he tore it up with a savagery that seemed out of character.
&ldquoThank you,&rdquo he whispered. Head high, shoulders squared, he hurried out. I could feel his relief. I was fairly certain he hadn&rsquot killed her.
After he left, I dragged out my handwritten copy of the lizard book where his name was listed beside the number 312. Which in his case might mean three hundred twelve thousand, considering he was a successful shrink. Whatever the true figure was, Courtney had seduced him, used him, and bled him dry.
&infin&infin&infin
&ldquoArlene&rsquos been in a bad car accident,&rdquo Tabitha announced that evening over the phone.
&ldquoMy God. What happened?&rdquo
&ldquoShe was driving down from San Francisco after visiting friends. She was a few miles from home when some truck veered
across the freeway and hit her. Thank God she had on her seatbelt and drives that Sherman tank.&rdquo
Early the next afternoon, I dropped by the hospital. Arlene looked like she&rsquod been hit by a semi and dragged five miles. She was covered in tubes, casts, and bruises.
&ldquoAt least I don&rsquot need a colostomy bag. And they aren&rsquot taking out my spleen,&rdquo she said. &ldquoMy leg&rsquos the biggest worry. They&rsquore threatening surgery.&rdquo
&ldquoAre you in pain?&rdquo
&ldquoNah, the meds are great. Mostly, I&rsquom bored.&rdquo Leaning forward, she listened for a moment then waved me closer.
&ldquoWhat?&rdquo
She spoke softly. &ldquoThis was no accident. This big silver truck crossed three lanes to hit me. That little book is poison. It must have the murderer&rsquos name in it. Get rid of the darn thing. You&rsquore in danger.&rdquo
More good news.
Suddenly the letter in my purse seemed like a wall between us. I needed answers before our friendship suffered. &ldquoI have something to tell you. Maybe this isn&rsquot the right time. But it&rsquos been eating at me for days.&rdquo I took a deep breath then said, &ldquoI read your letter to Courtney.&rdquo
She sighed and stared down at a tube in her arm. &ldquoI thought you might&rsquove seen it.&rdquo
&ldquoI never meant to blurt it out like that. I&rsquom guessing she used it to blackmail you.&rdquo
&ldquoGood guess.&rdquo
&ldquoI know you didn&rsquot kill her.&rdquo
She stared into space. &ldquoBelieve me, I thought about it. Lots. But I&rsquom no murderer.&rdquo
&ldquoHow could you be with her? You never even liked her.&rdquo
&ldquoI didn&rsquot. At first.&rdquo
12
&ldquoIt&rsquos not like I had dozens of lesbian affairs before her. After all, I was married. And I had boyfriends. All assholes, for the most part, but still ... I dunno. Maybe this affair means I&rsquom gay. More like bi, I guess,&rdquo Arlene said.
&ldquoHow come you never told me about it?&rdquo I asked.