All Things Considered

by A B Plum

  “Goddammit, Ryn.” His carotid pounded visibly, and his face suffused with dark, unhealthy blood. He whirled away from her, stalked down the stairs, and slammed out of the house. He stayed gone all night. Offered no explanation the next morning.

  Had he climbed into Amber’s bed?

  “Did you hear my question?” Comfrey’s hoarse voice brought her back to his office.

  What if he and Danny are colluding about my mental health? The idea buzzed in her skull. The sharp taste of cheese coated her tongue. The office swam, and she placed her hands on her knees, squeezing them to stay focused. “I did something this morning that makes me wonder if I am crazy. Seriously crazy.”

  He jotted another word in his notebook, closed it, and regarded her with eyes so sad she felt like crying. “Unless you confess to murder or unless you threatened to kill someone, I can keep whatever you say confidential. No one has ever won a case to subpoena my files.”

  “What I did this morning has nothing to do with Stone’s murder. Not directly,” she amended.

  Everything now has to do with Stone’s murder.

  “But my behavior was crazy. Off the wall. And I know it was crazy. So, I must not be totally off my rocker, right? I mean, if I know what I did was crazy … I know I sound crazy at this moment.” She stopped and caught a ragged breath. “Talking in riddles. Playing head games. Verbally shadowboxing with the world-renowned Dr. Colin C. Comfrey, Director of The California Sleep Disorder and—” Her breath rattled and unshed tears choked her larynx, but she kept talking. “Sleep Disorder Institute and Chief of Neuropsychiatry at Stanford, La Ti Da, University.”

  The world-renowned Dr. Comfrey pinched the bridge of his nose and let the silence between them stretch out. Ryn imagined standing and walking out. Going back to the apartment, collecting Maj, and riding out of town into the sunset.

  Maybe you do need meds instead of cheese.

  Wasn’t the silence going on too long? She shifted in her seat, repressed asking him what he was thinking, and stated, “I never heard the shots that killed Stone. I was asleep. That’s my alibi.”

  Comfrey picked up his pen and recapped it. “What kind of sleeping habits do you normally have?”

  “Bad.” Disappointed he hadn’t asked something more original—like what?—Ryn closed her eyes.

  “Insomnia?”

  “Since I was a child.” Ooops, that was more info than she wanted him to know. She added quickly, “Takes me hours to fall asleep.”

  “Why? Worry about your relationship with Stone? How difficult was it to maintain a strong relationship with such a dynamic personality?”

  Dynamic personality. Ryn caught herself mid-eye roll and said, “Stone’s mother died almost nine months ago. Her death hit us both hard. He’s become—he became—obsessed with writing a new song to honor her. I thought his … inspiration was ridiculous. We argued about it. A lot.”

  “Financial issues? Do you work?”

  “I’m the CEO of a non-profit group to help women become self-supportive. I don’t draw a salary. Stone underwrote most of our expenses—either with concerts or with contributions. Esperanza House wouldn’t exist without his generosity.” Tears stung her eyelids, but she opened her eyes and faced Comfrey without blinking. “We argued that I spent too much time working there, but Stone never, ever threatened to withdraw his financial backing.”

  “Drugs? Medical problems? Over-the counter pain relievers? Recreational use?”

  “None. Neither of us. None of the band members either. Beer and wine—in moderation. No drinking while driving. Zero tolerance for marijuana. Coke. Crack. Heroine. Ecstasy. Designer drugs. Zero. Tolerance. Popcorn was Stone’s drug of choice.”

  Comfrey laughed. “With or without butter?”

  “With tons of butter. Swimming in butter.” Wanting to lighten the mood, she smacked her lips and then rolled her eyes.

  His eye brows went up. “You’re not a butter fan?”

  “Not so much.” She shrugged. “Butter caused a lot of arguments recently.”

  “Did those kinds of interactions affect your insomnia?”

  The smile that flitted across his face failed to soften the obvious question and raised her suspicions instead. “Those kinds of interactions, as you call them, were like lighted cigarettes in a gas tank. Yes, the arguments kept me awake. They generated nightmares. The nightmares have increased and gotten worse since his …”

  “But you had nightmares before you met Stone.” A statement. “What’s their origin?”

  Ryn’s stomach dropped. She resisted the impulse to wipe away the sweat beading her forehead. You knew we’d get around to this sooner or later.

  “My father died a month after my sixth birthday.” She sorted through the details and discarded mentioning the nightmares occurred every night after she’d buried the corpse of her father’s birthday gift—a black, pregnant, pedigreed cocker spaniel.

  “Did you have counseling—not a psychiatrist, but a minister? Or school counselor?”

  “We couldn’t afford it.” Even as a child, she’d known dreaming about unborn puppies crawling through damp dirt next to their dead mother’s corpse was a secret she’d never tell her mother.

  Or anyone. For sure, not to Comfrey.

  I’m not that crazy.

  While she saw her mother crying night and day after Daddy’s death, Comfrey pushed his chair back from the desk and stood. He tapped his Phillipe Patek watch. “Let’s spend our last couple of minutes discussing why I can’t help you.”

  Ryn’s head snapped up, and she planted her cowboy boots on the carpet with a thud. “Danny said you’re the best—” Do. Not. Beg.

  “Danny’s a good friend. I’m sorry to disappoint him.”

  She jutted her chin at him. “I suppose you’re copping out because I don’t trust you.”

  Comfrey didn’t appear to notice she’d interrupted. He kept talking. “You don’t trust me and if I told you I thought you’re crazy, you’d probably kick my ass on your way out the door.”

  Her laugh rang hollow. “My response this morning—my crazy response—I brought two tough guys to their knees. Probably put them in the hospital. Yet I told you I’m not crazy.”

  Comfrey’s long fingers clasped his pen. He expelled a long breath. “That puts your situation in a different light.”

  “Now you think I’m crazy?”

  “Here’s my suggestion. Come every day for the next two weeks. We’ll work specifically on the insomnia and nightmares. We may even discover you heard something that can exonerate you.”

  Ryn thought about his suggestion. Why not say yes? Why not come and let him think Daddy’s death had traumatized her? He’d never learn the real reason.

  “All right. Thank you.” She held out her hand as if to prove her gratitude. “I’d be crazy not to accept your offer, wouldn’t I?”

  Chapter 11

  For the two-minute walk from Comfrey’s office to the rental car, Ryn moved with a lightness she hadn’t known since Stone’s murder. The rock at the base of her skull that had morphed into a boulder and brought her to her knees when she least expected the past ten days shifted a little—more to the middle of her shoulders making it easier to breathe deeply.

  She flashed on Comfrey tenting his fingers under his chin. In my renowned opinion, you aren’t crazy, Ryn.

  Admitting that opinion made her happy went too far. Especially since she’d only outlined the incident with The Monkey Boys. I will come clean. On Monday.

  The boulder settled a little lower between both shoulders on a flare of optimism. Contrary to Comfrey's caution, their meeting had given her the hope of optimism. Optimism she would continue life outside prison walls.

  For the first time since Stone died, she was hungry. No, more accurately, she was starving. Her stomach growled, and she picked up her pace, surprised she was looking forward to eating something more nutritious than a candy bar.

  Jumping right on her new health food regimen, she c
hose The Good Earth, a quasi-vegetarian restaurant half a mile from the Stanford campus. She ordered something called a Planet Burger, a green salad, and a raspberry smoothie. While she waited in her window booth, she jotted a few notes on a napkin for discussion on Monday with Comfrey and started a TO DO List.

  The missing melatonin and sleepwalking went on Comfrey’s list. She also wanted to know if fading in and out of the past characterized sleep deprivation. She doodled on her napkin and pulled out her phone. She punched in Danny’s number and added a question, Short attention span? for Comfrey. Her memory for recent facts and events had slipped in the past few days. She doubted she needed a reminder about The Monkey Boys, but she scribbled their name and the reminder: CONFESS.

  Naturally, her phone call went to Danny’s voice mail. No one answered phones in Hollywood or LA in the twenty-first century. Didn’t matter if Caller ID showed friend, stranger, enemy, or unknown, answering the phone immediately told the world how uncool you were. Ryn finished her smoothie and left a terse message for Danny to call ASAP.

  Item 2, she wrote under Danny’s name: Get a report from the P.I. she authorized Danny to hire. If Comfrey failed to help her prove conclusively she’d been asleep during the murder, then Elijah White had better come through.

  Brownie a la mode tempted her newly awakened taste buds, but she paid the bill instead and stepped onto University. This main drag through Palo Alto teemed with crowds of Stanford students and high-tech gurus. No one glanced her way. Relief buzzed in her fingertips. These kids would recognize Stone in an instant. Her—only if she walked by his side.

  Let’s hear it for anonymity. Only one more reason to leave Beau in the real LA. She lifted her face toward the sun. Having Beau around every minute since the murder had been like swimming with her feet tied together. The taste of Planet Burger refluxed in her throat. She stopped and stared with unseeing eyes into a store window. However bad Beau must feel without Stone in his life, at least he didn’t feel guilty. Didn’t recall that last damn argument in bed.

  “Why can’t you just do what I ask you, Ryn? Get those friggin’ moles cut off without making me such a bad ass?”

  “Why be such a bad ass, dude?” A few feet away from her window in the tree-shaded plaza, a kid with a purple and green Mohawk stood on his skateboard arguing with a Palo Alto cop.

  Ryn and passersby on both sides of the street observed the confrontation. Traffic muffled the policeman’s comments. Jericho speaks in the same low tone—must be a cop-in-control thing. Jericho could learn from Stone. She didn’t play well with bullies.

  The kid shrugged, stepped off his board, and shoved it under his arm, stomping off in the opposite direction, muttering under his breath. Ryn watched the cop watch the kid until he turned the corner at the end of the block before she turned and crossed with the green light.

  Not a good idea to rubberneck someone else’s business—not if I don’t want another rubbernecker to recognize me. Stone had taught her that lesson long ago.

  How can he be dead? When am I going to accept he’s not on a trip—that he won’t come home? She bit down on her bottom lip. No bawling allowed. Tears were one of the surest ways to draw attention. People tended to ask if a crying person was okay.

  Some of the lightness she’d felt earlier was fading,. Fatigue now weighed down her legs. It took her a minute to remember where she’d parked the Camry. A few flicks of the remote led her to the car, and she crawled behind the wheel. She sat there and counted to ten twice.

  A few minutes later, she pulled out of the parking lot behind the restaurant and automatically glanced in the rearview mirror. A dark green Corolla pulled out behind her. Ryn adjusted her side mirrors. Hadn’t a Corolla followed her from Comfrey’s office? She turned left onto El Camino and headed south toward Los Altos. The Corolla turned left. Which meant absolutely nothing.

  El Camino Real—“the royal road” was a north-south highway stretching from Sonoma in the north to San Diego in the south. Six hundred miles, she’d read online, connected more than twenty Jesuit and Franciscan missions. That number probably didn’t come close to the number of dark green Corollas whizzing south on El Camino in a single hour.

  Her green Corolla passed her on the right two blocks past Stanford. The driver shook his head and threw her a birdie.

  Ryn ground her teeth and admitted she’d been driving like a little ole lady. Staying with the flow of traffic, she flipped on the radio to an all-news station.

  Blah. Blah. Blah. The murder of a homeless man led with no update about Stone. She listened a few more minutes and then turned off the radio. What’d she expect? SoCal and NorCal were worlds apart. Stone was über-famous but in less than a week, his murder no longer claimed headlines. If—and when—Jericho had an announcement, she’d get to stand with him in front of the cameras as he broadcast she was Stone’s murderer.

  “Stop thinking about Stone,” she said out loud. If she thought about him, her feelings would spill over. Proving her innocence and her feelings about the murder required different strategies. Rush hour demanded her full attention.

  Traffic volume had picked up. Nothing like LA, but she didn’t know Silicon Valley landmarks. Reliance on the GPS jittered her nerves. She’d grown accustomed to Enrique chauffeuring her. Sheer willpower kept her focused on staying in her lane.

  Finally at her underground garage, she punched the security code into the badge reader. She caught a flash of the Safeway ATM and The Monkey Boys.

  Maybe they drive a green Corolla. Glancing around the well-lit garage, she saw no other cars. Her four neighbors, three men and one woman, probably worked for a living, she reminded herself. Unless you stood to inherit two hundred million bucks, rent for a two bedroom, two-bath apartment in this building amounted to a lot more than pocket change. The other occupants were probably still working on a Friday at three-thirty.

  The elevator door snicked open, and a heavy smell of burnt cinnamon, sour oranges, and cloves hung in the air heavier than bad breath. Ryn coughed and covered her mouth.

  “Wow!” she commented to the control panel. Not the kind of aftershave she’d expect from the thirtysomething guys living in such an upscale place. But since she wouldn’t recognize any of the men if she stood next to them in the produce department at Safeway, they could wear eau de skunk for all she knew.

  The door closed, and Ryn inserted her key for the third-floor penthouse. The elevator ascended so quietly and smoothly that it was hard to be sure she was really moving. Problem was, the ascent wasn’t fast enough. Whoever wore that damn aftershave needed to get a refund or post a warning of his comings and goings. The stuff was as lethal as nerve gas. It reminded her of the embalming fluid Beau wore.

  “Oh, shit.” Her pulse stuttered. She raised her nose and sniffed. Had Beau found her? Danny swore he wouldn’t tell anyone—especially Beau—where she’d escaped.

  The elevator doors slid open, and she stuck her head out, Cautious as a turtle, she scanned the wide hallway. Satisfied Beau hadn’t shown up, she stepped into the hall, nose twitching. Good thing Comfrey couldn’t see her. He might yet change his appraisal of her mental condition. She was no longer positive the aftershave smelled like Beau’s, and she had zero confidence any odor lingered in the air except for the fresh yellow roses in the hallway.

  Most important, she remembered Beau didn’t have an elevator key.

  Disgusted at her slow brain, she tapped her forehead with the heel of her hand. “How long before you check under the bed and in the closets—to make sure the bogeyman isn’t hiding there?”

  Talking to yourself … such a good sign.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. Apparently she needed more than one good meal to think straight. She stepped out of the elevator and whistled. No matter what, Maj loved her. She strolled toward the kitchen, called Maj, and made kissing sounds between her lips.

  Stone had never understood why she loved a cat so much but refused to have his baby. In his saner moments, he admitted he had a
bout as much business becoming a father as she had becoming a nun. Their last baby argument—only days after Lavender’s death—lasted hours.

  At the end of her rope, grieving Lavender, Ryn finally yelled, “If I had your baby, you’d probably want to name him Brick. Or Rock. Or, God forbid, Stone, Jr.”

  His mouth dropped, and then he threw back his head and roared. She joined him. Laughing felt so good. So good they tore each other’s clothes off and made love like two animals in heat. They lay in bed afterwards, holding hands and snuggling. They recalled how flower child Lavender proudly told the media, I never dreamed Stone would grow up and change Wallerstein to Wall and become a legend in his own time.

  Their truce lasted less than a week. We loved each other—once, long ago.

  The thought morphed into melancholy, leaving Ryn feeling lonelier and more scared than she wanted to admit. She called for Maj, squatted, and searched under a coffee table—even though a part of her scoffed. She could see only carpet and no Maj. Assaulted by a growing, irrational dread, she headed for the bedroom.

  “You better not be on that bed,” she called in a sing-song cadence like a little kid passing a cemetery at night.

  Halfway to the bedroom door, she stopped, heart thumping in her ears. Why was the door closed? She never shut bedroom doors anymore—not since finding Stone behind the double doors of their bedroom suite last week. A chill rattled down her spine. Mouth dry, she grabbed the doorknob and pushed.

  She ran toward the lifeless orange and white body on the blue quilted bedspread. “Maj? Maj?”

  “Meeeeow?” Maj blinked, raised her thick neck without bothering to get up, and yawned, revealing teeth and her curled tongue.

  Crying and making silly noises, refusing to admit she’d lost all control, Ryn fell across the bed. She grabbed The Fanged Beast. Maj resisted the invasion of her space, twisted, and squirmed to wiggle out of Ryn’s grasp.

  “Okay. Okay.” Reluctantly, Ryn released her hold and dragged her sleeve across her dripping nose. She flopped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.