Apparently, my file-reviewer reviewer was ready to begin. Sitting at the desk, I pulled the stack of files to me and began checking the names against the list Astrid had provided. Not that I would be able to tell if there had been any tampering. Unless …
I pulled open the top drawer, yanking it too hard since I’d expected it to be locked. Stray pencils shot from back to front, rattling like bones in a coffin. No wonder they hadn’t bothered with locks. Unless I could read the past in the loose paperclips and food crumbs in the empty space, there was nothing for them to worry about. I slammed the drawer.
“Did Regina have an appointment book?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Did she use a computer?” I thought back, seeming to remember Regina carrying a red leather laptop case. Of course, our clinic had computers, old and clunky, in each therapist’s office, which hooked up to a central server. We were able to check our schedules, although clients set those up with the secretaries in the front office. But here, the only computer I’d seen was Clotilde’s dinosaur-era monster. I hadn’t noticed one when I’d peeked over Lachlyn’s shoulder, but maybe it was out of view.
“No, we can’t afford one for everyone. And those that are donated are usually so riddled with viruses that they’re next to useless.”
“Then how did Regina keep track of her appointments? Did she have a planner?”
Lachlyn’s hesitation was so brief it might have been overlooked by someone less familiar with resistance. “I said I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Astrid. By the way, you only have another twenty minutes before I have to go. Next time, you might let me know what your plans are. I can’t be expected to drop everything whenever you decide to show up.”
“How do the rest of you keep track of appointments? Does Astrid have them on her computer system?”
My cell phone rang, jarring me from my thoughts. I checked the Caller ID—Blodgett. The detective’s timing was as rotten as a fart in an elevator. I let it go to voice mail and repeated my question to Lachlyn.
“No, she doesn’t. We each take care of our own scheduling. Are you finished?” She snapped her notebook shut and stood.
“I still have twenty minutes.” I pulled the top file off the stack and opened it. Keeping my eyes riveted to the document, I could nevertheless feel Lachlyn’s resentment emanating from across the desk. However, she regrouped.
“Seventeen minutes,” she said as she sat back down.
I let my eyes rise to hers and gave a fleeting Mona Lisa smile. Then I got back to work.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sixteen minutes later—yes, I counted—Lachlyn snatched the files out of my hands, locked them in the cabinet and stalked back to her office. Didn’t even say good-bye.
I could still hear voices coming from the group therapy room, so instead of leaving, I followed the hall past Lachlyn’s lair and Clotilde’s office. I paused briefly outside the director’s but couldn’t hear anyone beyond the closed door. I didn’t want to see her anyway. Just beyond Clotilde’s office stood another door. I tested it and discovered a set of stairs leading up into Stygian darkness. Was it this stairway… ?
I shuddered, not wanting to think about Regina’s fall, and shut the door a bit too loudly. I half-expected Lachlyn to poke her head out and catch me being nosy, so I hurried on into the communal kitchen. A light burned over the stove, which should have made the room feel cozier. I could feel the chill of the tiled floor through my thinly soled dress shoes. The heat was probably on a timer-switch that lowered the temperature automatically in the evening.
I’d just decided that there was no one around and was envisioning going home to a long, hot bath, when I heard a thump from a room just beyond the furnace room.
“Hello?” I called.
The door cracked open, spilling light into the space. Astrid stood blinking out into the hallway, a warm smile on her plain face. “Yes?”
“Hi, Astrid. It’s me. Letty Whittaker?” I moved into the tiny halo of light offered by the stove.
She stopped smiling. “Oh. What can I do for you?”
“I’m sorry to bother you. I just wondered if we could set up some time for me to meet with you. I really don’t understand the shelter or its workings, and, well, I don’t want to make things worse for the women here. I thought maybe you could give me an overview, kind of help steer me in the right direction.”
“Oh!” Surprised at my overture, she moved toward me slightly, her body relaxing into itself, becoming less of a barricade. I’d touched her Achilles heel, one which most of us in the mental health field shared: the need to be needed. I hadn’t planned it, but I’d always had a soft spot for support staff in an agency. Secretaries could be formidable allies. They knew where the bodies were buried. So to speak.
Down the hall, a door opened. The sound of several women talking at once rippled toward us as the group let out.
Astrid stepped back quickly, almost guiltily. “Call me. We’ll set something up.” She shut the door in my face, leaving me stranded in what I thought was the middle of the conversation.
“Well, now I just feel cheap,” I muttered.
“What?” The light clicked on as two women entered the kitchen, apparently ready to scrounge up an evening snack. They looked at me strangely.
“I, um, said I needed some sleep. Time to go home!” I sailed past as they traded skeptical looks with each other, their giggles following me out the door.
I didn’t call. Instead, I showed up at the shelter at 7:00 a.m. Unfortunately, I was the only one who did. I tried tapping at the office-side of the duplex, but no one responded. After briefly entertaining the idea of knocking on the other side, I decided against it. I was afraid I’d scare the women and really piss off Clotilde. Astrid showed up about an hour and a half later, thus saving me from a nearly exploded bladder and terminal boredom. After waiting for her to park, I hopped out of my car, trotting after her.
“I thought you were going to call,” she said, scowling. Apparently, whatever goodwill I’d accrued last night had expired. Maybe she wasn’t a morning person.
“Really? I thought you said to meet you here this morning. I’m sorry.” I smiled disarmingly.
It didn’t take. She stood frowning in the middle of the sidewalk, although since she didn’t actually order me away, I pretended not to notice.
“I really don’t have time this morning to—”
“Do you mind if I use the bathroom? I really have to go.” I whispered the last sentence in one of those confidential, pseudo-girlfriend tones that are supposed to be hard for fellow women to resist. I could tell she was tempted, but when I pretended to eye the shrubbery, she caved.
After using the bathroom, I found Astrid in the kitchen making fresh coffee. The smell of eggs and syrup hung in the air like the ghost of breakfasts-past, making my mouth water. Despite that, the room looked much the same as it had last night; the women had cleaned up after themselves so well that, without the aroma, I wouldn’t have been aware they even existed. It also made me wonder why no one had answered my knocking.
“Do the women eat on this side? I thought it was just administrative.”
“It is. The stove is broken on their side and we just have to make do.”
“This is certainly an amazing place,” I said, my voice so buttery I almost imagined it adding to the breakfast smell. “I can see that it’s very well run. What exactly is your role here?”
A brief war played across Astrid’s face. Half of her knew she should boot me out, but the other? The other half ached to talk about her life’s work.
“My role? Well, I guess I’m the one who feeds the women cookies and tucks them in at night.”
She laughed and I could tell that she’d used that line many times before. I smiled back at her. “That’s nice. They must need someone like you after all the abuse they’ve been through.”
“They do. Many of them can’t even remember feeling safe or cared for. That’s the fir
st thing we tell them. That’s what I told you, remember? When you first came in?” A shadow crossed her eyes as she remembered my purpose in coming to the shelter.
“How does the shelter manage the security issues here?” I asked hurriedly.
“That’s my area,” she said, almost preening again. Apparently I’d stumbled on exactly the right question to keep from being booted out the door. “It’s our biggest expense, really. But there’s no getting around it. Come here.”
CHAPTER NINE
Astrid led me to a door tucked in between the kitchen and her office. I could hear the furnace humming to life just beyond. Unlike the cheap doors that were used elsewhere, this door was of solid wood. Pulling a jangling batch of keys off a belt clip, Astrid unlocked it. Inside, a furnace did indeed take up most of the space, but a good share of the wall housed an electrical panel that looked like a NASA-level circuit board. Astrid waved a hand at it.
“This is what a lot of our donations go for. It’s a good system, but it needs updating. With all that’s happened, I’m hoping the board will see … Well, never mind.” She shut the door again, firmly, and made a show of locking it back up. Then she continued on to her own office, using the keys again.
I followed. The whole purpose of Astrid’s domain, about the size of a walk-in closet, seemed to be to house the computer that sat on the desk. Astrid had to squeeze sideways between the wall and desk to take her chair behind it. A clear swath, butt-high, on the dingy paint tracked her route.
“Apparently this is where the rest of the donations go,” I said, indicating the computer.
“It’s all part of the security system. The video cameras around the property feed into this computer and record all movement on the perimeter. I can access the system for remote viewing, if need be, and, of course, so can the police. When it’s set, an alarm will sound if the perimeter is breached. What we really need, though, is a silent alarm system so if an intruder gains access and it develops into a hostage situation, we can alert the police.”
“What if they cut the power?” There was no extra chair so, since we were getting so chatty, I perched on the corner of the desk. Regina had described some aspects of the shelter’s security precautions when she’d dragged me here months ago, but not to this degree. She’d also made me participate in a safety drill, which I’d hated. I didn’t remind Astrid, though; I needed her to forget I was a different kind of intruder, and letting her show off her expertise was making good headway.
“Most of our utilities are buried, but we also have a backup battery as well. Plus any cut wires instantly set the alarm off and notifies the police and fire department.”
“Sounds pretty elaborate. Is that why you don’t worry about keeping the shelter a secret?”
“More like the other way around, really. It’s nearly impossible to keep a shelter’s location confidential for very long, especially in a small city like Chippewa Falls. Too many women and their children come through the doors, the police and fire departments are all in the loop, and eventually any repair work means we have to have construction workers or plumbers or whatever here. This way, we’re known to the community. In fact, some of our neighbors help keep watch on our ladies. I’ve had several of them call the cops on strange cars or men who seem to be lurking. A lot of the problems get handled before the assholes even get on the premises.
“Besides,” she went on, “why should the women have to sneak around like they’re the problem? Most of their abusers are cowards and bullies who aren’t going to risk having witnesses for their actions. This way, we don’t have to keep our offices in a separate facility, and we can openly educate the community on domestic violence issues.”
“Most of the abusers,” I repeated. “But not all. What about the ones who aren’t going to be stopped by a bunch of women? A neighborhood watch might not be enough.” Having been the victim of a stalker a few months ago, I knew the risk these women were taking. Knew it very well.
Astrid sighed. “There are pros and cons to both approaches. If it were up to me, I’d have gone with keeping the place secret. They just went with what seemed the most practical at the time.”
I noted the ‘I-they’ comment.
“But I understand your concerns,” she continued. “Let me assure you, I take my job very seriously. At any rate, I keep them safe here at the shelter. The problems start when they go out into the real world, don’t they?”
Astrid’s eyes were soft and gentle, telling me she knew about my past.
Enough bonding.
“Did the cameras record Regina’s fall?”
Astrid stiffened, the tenderness slipping off her face like it had been greased. “No. The cameras aren’t…well, never mind. What a morbid thought.”
She stood abruptly, shoving past my knees and out the door in a heartbeat. She held it open, waves of disapproval radiating off her body.
“I’m sorry. That was tactless.” Meekly, I followed her into the dim hallway. “Regina told me to watch out for irritability or sudden outbursts of anger after … You know.” Tactless and heartless. I had no compunction about using Regina’s name or Astrid’s awareness of my history to my advantage. Not under these circumstances. And Astrid would be well-versed in the symptoms of posttraumatic stress disorder, the changes that occur after one’s very life has been threatened. She also knew about my former boyfriend’s death. I’d talked about it one night, months ago, when Regina had dragged me to a group here.
It must have worked. Astrid calmed a bit, the blaze dropping from her eyes.
Pressing ahead, I pulled the client list she’d given me the day before from my purse. “You said that this is Regina’s current client list. Does that mean that these women are still in residence?” I already knew the answer from my file review yesterday, but I needed to re-engage her.
She took the list, scanning it. “Yes, well, at least most of them are. These two—” she pointed at two names—“were discharged a few weeks ago. They were meeting with Regina once a week for outpatient counseling. I don’t see Karissa here, though. Maybe because she left. She took off with her kids the Sunday before last. I’m worried about her. She’d only been here a few days, and I don’t think she was at all ready to leave.”
“A week ago Sunday? The day after Regina’s accident?” I asked.
Before she could answer, a voice from the kitchen said, “Astrid? Who are you talking to?”
We both jumped.
A tall, Junoesque figure stood shadowed in the kitchen doorway, a cup of coffee steaming in her hand.
“Good morning, Lachlyn,” I said, walking forward. My heart thumped as hard as if I was facing an IRS auditor. In fact, that would be preferable.
The figure stepped back as I approached, moving from the dark hall into the morning light of the kitchen. Clotilde—not Lachlyn.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Clotilde. I thought you were—”
“Are you here to meet with Lachlyn?” she interrupted in a distinct, your-explanations-mean-nothing-to-me tone.
Almost hurt my feelings.
“Not today, I’m afraid. I’m going to give her a call and set something up. Speaking of appointments, do you know where Regina’s calendar is? Nobody seems to know what kind of system she used to keep track.”
We eye-dueled for several moments before Clotilde smiled and said, “No, I certainly don’t know where Regina’s calendar is. Astrid? Do you?”
Astrid shook her head, looking as if she wanted the floor to swallow her up.
“I’ve already asked Astrid. She couldn’t tell me anything, either.” I tossed a bone to the woman, not wanting her to get in trouble for talking with me. I really wanted that calendar, though. For one thing, all I had to go on regarding Regina’s client list was Clotilde’s word, and I certainly didn’t trust her. No one had mentioned this Karissa, and her name wasn’t on the client list that I still clutched in my sweaty hand. There was no way she would be included on the closed file list if she hadn’t left the shel
ter until the day after Regina died. In fact, it was entirely possible that Karissa, having been at the shelter that night, would have information about the incident.
I needed to find her.
I looked up to find Clotilde staring at me. I shuddered, hoping she couldn’t follow my thoughts.
It depended, however, on just how much she had overheard.
CHAPTER TEN
As soon as I got back to the clinic I confirmed that Karissa and her children weren’t on the roster of clients that the shelter had provided me. The question, of course, was why not? I checked the stash of files that Regina had appropriated and established Karissa whoever wasn’t included there either.
I really needed Regina’s calendar, which I hoped would contain the facts about Regina’s clients. It would help if I knew whether she carried a hard copy, such as a day planner, or kept track by computer. A closer search of her office didn’t turn anything up, but I hadn’t really expected it to. I’d gone through her papers very carefully and had been working in her office almost daily since accepting the executor’s responsibilities.
But I hadn’t been to her house. A sudden fear that Clotilde or Lachlyn had already gone through Regina’s home made my stomach cramp. There were so many knots to unravel that I was certainly overlooking some obvious ones. I searched through the paperwork until I found Emma’s phone number, then held my breath through several rings, trying to improvise a coherent message in case her voice mail picked up.
My luck was in. Emma answered and agreed to meet me at Regina’s after she got off work Friday afternoon. I didn’t have any clients scheduled after three that day so that worked well for me. She asked if I’d mind picking up a box of Regina’s personal things from the shelter if she called them to give permission.
No. No, I didn’t mind at all.
Thursday morning unfolded into one of those crisp autumn days that made me wish I could get out to the woods. Since I wasn’t seeing clients today, I decided to go casual and wear my denim jacket and the Timberlands I’d gotten on sale last spring at Gander Mountain. At least I could look hiker-esque.
Whittaker 02 The One We Love Page 4