All Things Considered

by A B Plum

  “It’s an interesting theory,” she said. “But Beau and Elijah should show up in a few minutes. And my brilliant mind deduces you had some other point when you said we have to talk.”

  McCoy’s silly grin evaporated. He looked away from her, his gaze settling on something over her shoulder. “Did you know that Stone planned to cut you out of his will?”

  “You know me better than that, Ryn.”

  For a decade—longer, maybe—she fought sinking into the white sofa. McCoy, eyes wide, mouth turned down, extended a hand. Which she ignored. Lying. He was lying.

  As if in a dream, she heaved to her feet, waving him away with one hand, holding her stomach with the other. Stone’s denials collided in her head, making her dizzy. She placed one foot in front of the other as if walking a tightrope. She tore open McCoy’s door. He dogged her heels into the hall.

  Talking, talking, talking.

  Apologizing?

  Asking if it hurt when the train left her in bloody pieces?

  He slapped his hand over the elevator buttons. “Kathryn, please listen.”

  “You know me better than that, Ryn.”

  She knocked McCoy’s hand away and mashed DOWN, “I thought I did.”

  “Kathryn, you’re over-reacting.” McCoy placed one foot in the elevator’s door.

  He’s lying. “Get out of my way.”

  “Give me a damn minute.” He pushed against the door whapping to close.

  Logic evaporated. Ryn stomped on his foot.

  Cussing, he yelled and pitched against the wall.

  Bet that hurts. Too bad. She clamped her jaw tight—against the nasty smile trying to break out. Based on their past experience, he should’ve figured anyone crazy enough to attack a stranger in the elevator might lose all her marbles when she heard Stone intended to disinherit her. She entered the elevator. Blinded by tears, she rammed her penthouse key home. Why had she ever trusted McCoy?

  Or was she kidding herself? Had she forgotten that five or six months before Lavender died, Stone had turned into a stranger?

  Clichéd, but true.

  After an argument in which he ordered her to stop going to Esperanza House, she’d yelled, “You’ll be burning in hell first.”

  God, what she’d give to take back that smart-ass remark.

  “Don’t take it personally, sweetheart.” Lavender tracked Ryn to her private retreat in the rose garden and hugged Ryn, whispering, “He bit my head off this morning. Soon as he gets the songs written for the new album, he’ll be himself again. You know every note has to be perfect.”

  In the case of the new album, every note was far from perfect. Stone’s music had changed. Of that Ryn was certain. A Boston critic wrote, Half the songs on the The Stoned Gang’s latest release sound like ripped-off imitations of The Beatles, David Bowie, and the Grateful Dead—all thrown together with the musical flair of a Tiny Tim.

  “Ryn? Open up.” Beau tapped on the frosted glass in the lobby door.

  Slowly, as if waking from a deep sleep, she shifted her gaze from the EMERGENCY button. Her heart thumped. How long had she stood there staring into space? Why had she gone to the penthouse and then back to the first floor?

  “You know me better than that …”

  Beau rattled the doorknob, and she shuffled across the shiny marble floor. She flashed on McCoy slipping in the plum sauce, banging his backside, yelling at her like a Puritan yelling at a witch to keep her distance. She laughed out loud. Too bad McCoy couldn’t write the episode. It would be fun to read what went through his mind as her foot hurtled toward his face.

  Another jangle at the door refocused her. Or maybe it was Beau’s face pressed against the pane like a monster plastered to the side of an aquarium that centered her attention. She opened the door and Beau stumbled over the threshold.

  “Ryn, you should’ve seen the burrito I ate.” The smell of cilantro and refried beans filled the lobby. Her stomach rolled. “It was bigger than a submarine. Elijah said we should’ve rented a crane to get it to my mouth.”

  A contagious laugh exploded from Beau’s rosebud lips, and Ryn laughed. Too loud. Too long. Beau cocked his head at her. Her throat closed. What would happen to Beau if Jericho had her arrested once he heard about Stone changing his will?

  “Hey, Beau. This weighs a ton. Help me out here.” Elijah pushed a brown paper bag toward Beau.

  “Absolutely.” Beau grabbed the bag and raced for the elevator.

  “Go on up,” Ryn called. “I have the extra key.”

  As soon as Beau closed the elevator door, Elijah asked, “How bad was Danny’s news? You look like he punched you between the eyes.”

  “You’re pretty observant. I guess that’s why you’re a PI.”

  “Not to mention my pretty face.”

  She turned to exit the lobby into the elevator, but a flash of white at the bank of resident mailboxes caught her attention. She saw her name scribbled on it and removed Danny’s card. No surprise. She’d expected he’d get the last word. She turned over the card. Call ASAP. I have some bad news.

  “Wouldn’t you expect a top-notch lawyer to hire top-notch staff?”

  “I am top-notch, Ryn. That pretty face comment—”

  “Not you.” She waved her hand. “A blabbermouth secretary. Or someone with access to the kind of confidential info the sleazoids love.”

  Elijah reclined against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. “McCoy must have more charm than I thought.”

  Without thinking about it, Ryn told him. His eyes never left hers while she railed so she threw in her opinion about McCoy’s source. “My first impulse is denial. On the other hand, the rumor may be one hundred percent accurate.”

  “You know me better than that, Ryn, darlin’ …”

  With a little grunt, Elijah pushed away from the wall. “Why would Danny talk about The Monkey Boys instead of this little bombshell?”

  “No idea.” Ryn crumpled the card and brought her hand back to throw it in a stainless steel trashcan.

  Elijah caught her arm and took the card. “Let’s not leave tidbits for curious reporters … and others.”

  “Damn, I’m not as paranoid as I thought.”

  “If McCoy picked up gossip, when did Danny know? When did he have the opportunity to tell you?”

  “How about when he and I talked on the phone three times last week? Or how about as soon as you and Beau left today?”

  “You know me …”

  They rode to the penthouse in silence. The bouquet of silk flowers lay on a table under one of the gold mirrors. No sign of the broken pieces from the shattered Chinese vase.

  Ryn exhaled a long breath. “Wish I had a few more good surprises like this.”

  Chapter 36

  And now there are three. Elijah joined McCoy and Danny the trio in the know about Ryn’s disinheritance. Plus the unnamed source. Ryn claimed a major headache, stating she didn’t want Elijah’s details. So, he left. Beau and Maj watched TV in the guest bedroom. Ryn stared into space. When her cell phone interrupted her anti-social thoughts about tabloid headlines, she made no effort to answer.

  Leave a message.

  Or not. Preferably not. She didn’t give a damn about the money. Her new computer company had made close to ten mil last year. She could support Esperanza House for several years. Even if she ended up in prison. The phone kept ringing. Get a frickin’ life. Ready to chew ass, she hauled hers off the sofa, pulled the cell out of her purse, checked Caller ID, and laughed.

  “Doctor Comfrey.” She marveled her sarcastic tone didn’t melt her front teeth. “Are you calling to see if I’m depressed about being disinherited?”

  “Dis—no, I thought you were Stone’s sole beneficiary?”

  “Things change.”

  He didn’t miss a beat. “They do. That’s why I’m calling. I have a conflict with our appointment tomorrow morning. Can you come to my office today at five?”

  “Sure—unless I get arrested.”
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br />   “Is there any danger of that happening?” In the background, a noise she couldn’t identify muffled his normally dry tone. “Should I call Danny?”

  “No,” she rushed on, feeling silly for her comment. “But I can’t leave Beau alone for an hour.”

  “Bring him along. I’ll figure out something.” He sounded as if caring for Beau posed no problems for a guy who’d gotten through med school. “You okay?”

  “Probably better than you after your emergency call last night.”

  “I’m fine. See you at five.”

  She listened to the dial tone and tried to pinpoint the note she’d heard riding Comfrey’s words. As she went to tell Beau about the appointment, her brain kick started. Dammit, she’d forgotten the nine o’clock appointment with Harpo and Chance. Comfrey at five. Dinner afterwards. Bring Beau back to the apartment. And—

  And forget leaving him alone. Frustrated and nervy, she Googled “Adult Private Care Agencies” and hit pay dirt on the third listing. She explained what she needed to the cheery Special Needs Caregiver. She’d have to pay a hefty non-refundable incentive—four hundred bucks—plus the regular hourly fee of a hundred dollars.

  Ryn made a face, but repeated her number one requirement. A mature, experienced woman who would treat Beau like an adult. No twentysomething ditz who’d take one look at him and run screaming from the apartment.

  After another twenty minutes of competent noises and soothing words, the caregiver convinced Ryn she would be satisfied. She recited her Express Platinum Card number from memory and hung up, vaguely anxious and demoralized.

  Stick your head in the sand and forget the damn inheritance. She’d need all her wits to explain the rest of the day to Beau.

  Four hours later, fresh from naps, showers, and a fourth review of what was happening, Beau and Ryn approached the revolving door of Comfrey’s building.

  “I remember this place,” Beau screamed. “Amber and me came here to find you so I could visit Maj. Amber knew I was lonely.”

  “You did,” Ryn agreed, surprised he recalled the place. You never knew with Beau. Or with Amber. Did she really know Beau was lonely?

  “Wanna know why I remember?” Beau stopped before entering the revolving door.

  “Absolutely.” Ryn stood next to him as if they had all the time in the world. Beau drawing a cause-and-effect conclusion trumped Comfrey’s tight schedule.

  “I remember ’cuz it looks exactly like the building where Stone had to use the elevator like you do to get to his apartment.” Beau tilted his head and craned his neck to get a better view of the red-tiled, neo-Moorish roof.

  Ryn’s pulse jumped. She held her breath. Time meant almost nothing to Beau, though he often had less trouble with the distant past than with what he’d done the day before. “Did Stone know me when you and he visited that apartment?”

  “Absolu—” His blue eyes lost focus. He frowned. “I don’t remember for sure. We went more than once. Stone said it was our little secret.”

  “What’d you do there?” Ryn tried to keep her voice casual. Little secret?

  “We jammed. I played drums and Stone played guitar. The way we used to do when we were kids—before The Stoned Gang. Once time a man came to visit Stone and they got into a very big argument. Stone was ma-a-ad.”

  “Do you know what made him so mad?”

  “Nope.” Beau scratched his right shoulder. “He made me stay in the bedroom while he talked to the man. After the guy left, Stone told me never to tell you or anyone else about the man or the apartment.”

  Her mouth went dry. He doesn’t have much attention left for this conversation. She tried anyway. “Are you sure he said you shouldn’t tell me?”

  Beau scratched his shoulder. He hesitated and then sighed. “He said, Don’t tell anyone—especially don’t tell Ryn, okay, Beau?” As if he suspected she wanted to ask more questions, Beau said, “I need to go to the bathroom.”

  Comfrey’s secretary, Martha, fiftyish, silver haired, pleasantly plump and quite matronly in her Land’s End black-and-green plaid jumper greeted Beau like a missionary in darkest Africa.

  “Oh, I hope you can help me, Beau.” She picked up two stacks of CDs from her desk, balancing them in front of her like a juggler. “Most of Doctor’s teenage patients say the Tibetan chimes are depressing. I think you’re the perfect person to help me select music they might listen to. You know, for the four or five minutes before their appointments with Doctor.”

  Beau’s face lit up and he waddled after the older woman like a baby duck after its mother, asking if she was a rock fan. Comfrey stepped out of his office, and Martha’s answer was lost to Ryn. Behind Comfrey, she saw nothing but shadows. Beyond them, total blackness filled up the corners.

  Place is like a cave. Ryn crossed the threshold. “Miss paying the light bill?”

  “Most people find indirect lighting relaxing. But I can certainly turn—”

  “No, this is fine.” Is he saying I’m uptight? She leaned back. Maybe she needed all the lights on. Yakking with Comfrey about light left her feeling as if she was in the dark. She didn’t have a clue why they were stuck in small-talk hell.

  “Check off that scintillating topic.” Comfrey sat and laced his fingers on top of his desk. “Any curiosity about why I changed your appointment?”

  “A little.” More than she intended to admit. As long as he didn’t want more revelations about Mama, she’d manage.

  “I’d like to hypno—”

  “When you have me in a padded cell.”

  “An open mind. That’s what I like about you—your wide-open mind.” His subtle sarcasm emphasized the words. “Hypnotizing you might clear you and identify the killer.”

  Fear fanned by suspicion washed over her, leaving her dizzy, confused. Her heart galloped. She blurted, “Did Danny put you up to this?”

  Comfrey met her gaze. “No one put me up to anything.”

  “I-I find that … hard to believe.” Sweat, cold and sticky, popped out on her forehead and dripped into her eyes. She blinked—making the sting and her vision worse.

  Comfrey folded one hand inside the other and waited. He appeared relaxed. Laid back, even.

  Anxiety gnawed at the lining of her stomach. Until this moment, she’d never considered she might help find Stone’s killer. She had to prove her innocence—not find the murderer. Until now … because who was on the killer’s trail?

  Not Elijah. Danny kept him here to prevent her dumbness with The Monkey Boys from becoming habitual. Jericho had already pegged her as guilty. That left no one searching in Los Angeles.

  Stone. I am so sorry. She flashed on the red hibiscus and pinched the inside of her wrist. Hard. Having someone mess in her mind didn’t compare to someone putting two bullets in her chest.

  Comfrey slid out from behind his desk and sat on one edge, never breaking eye contact. His leg swung causally over the corner, but his long, thin face froze, the bones under his sallow skin unnaturally sharp. “I’m not the only hypnotherapist in town. If you don’t trust me, we can use someone else.”

  Trust him? She peered into his smudged eyes and fought the instinct to scream. Confessing about Mama counted for something, didn’t it?

  His foot and leg swung back and forth like a pendulum on a clock. “Your test results from last night can be interpreted as normal—under the circumstances.”

  “See me bite my tongue?” I told you so rode her triumph, and she added, “What does hypnosis accomplish?”

  Comfrey placed both feet on the floor. “Perhaps nothing. Hypnosis works best when the patient is able to participate in a phenomenon known as believed-in fantasy.”

  “Explain, please.”

  “Believed-in fantasy means if you were highly responsive to my suggestions, you would see, hear, feel, smell, and even taste whatever I suggested to you. Let’s say I give you a piece of gum and suggest it is, in fact, a charred hot dog. By probing, I could get you to describe the hot dog through your senses.”<
br />
  He stopped and raised one eyebrow—as if inviting Ryn to ask questions or make comments. When she remained mute, he continued. “Contrary to popular belief, I cannot make you do or say anything which goes against your strongly held moral, ethical, or religious beliefs. If I pushed you, you could resist. For example, if I told you a human finger was a gun—well, you get the idea.”

  “What about lying? Some of these age regression and sexual abuse cases have become pretty controversial.” An invisible fist closed around her heart.

  Comfrey stroked his beard. “Two different and very complex issues.” He straightened his shoulders and spoke in a professorial cadence. “It’s possible to lie under hypnosis. Nearly as easily as lying during a normal waking state. A good hypnotherapist should be able to pick up on the lies. Most states do accept evidence derived from hypnosis.”

  An involuntary shiver caught her by surprise. “That’s scary.”

  “Age regression is trickier. Memories may actually be a melding of a series of events from the same time frame as well as from different time periods. Throw in family stories—myths as I like to call them—and you complicate the issue even more. We all have memories of experiences so vivid we’d swear we lived them. Often, the memories may derive from hearing a story—repeated by our parents, grandparents, siblings, or whoever about how we behaved in a situation that became for us reality.”

  Comfrey glanced at his watch. “My academic genes captured my brain, I’m afraid. Sorry, I didn’t mean to meander. If you wanted reassurance that hypnosis is a scientific technique, I doubt I’ve given you that.”

  “Can you—at least tell me, honestly—that it’s better than a dose of snake oil?” Ryn laughed, testing Comfrey’s sense of humor.

  He flashed a weak smile. “I can say with total confidence that using hypnosis with you is more reliable than using snake oil.”

  While he collected the penthouse elevator key, gave it to Martha, along with instructions on taking Beau to supper, and returned to his desk, Ryn continued breathing. Too hard, too fast. If there was any chance she held a clue to the killer’s identity, she owed it to Stone to let Comfrey mess in her head.