by Judy M. Kerr
MC said good-bye as the turbulent waters cradled Barb and retreated, leaving a lacy froth in their wake. She contemplated the irony of Barb’s violent death culminating in their committing her ashes into the tempestuous Great Lake, where she would find eternal peace in its frigid depths.
They hugged and cried. Eventually, MC led the way back up the stairs to the corner of the yard that held Barb’s garden.
She upended the urn at the same time another brisk, pine-scented breeze kicked up. MC squinted in the sun’s glare as swirls of ash climbed upward, and she lost sight of them before some slowly drifted back down, dotting the whitescape of the garden. MC plugged the cover back onto the now-empty urn and traced Barb’s name, etched on the container. She drew in a ragged breath through her mouth, freezing her lungs.
“We should probably get back.” Dara held a hand to her forehead, shading her eyes. “Fuckin’-A, trouble’s brewing.” She pointed out over the lake.
MC followed the direction of Dara’s finger. Great hulking black and gray clouds appeared to be marching across Lake Superior. “You’re right. We should get out ahead of the storm.”
Chapter Thirteen
Monday, December 8
MC’s first of two recommended appointments with Doctor Emily Zaulk, a police psychologist, was scheduled for one o’clock. Jamie convinced her to complete the visits prior to her return to duty. He wanted to ensure she wasn’t returning to work too soon.
Although MC understood, and mostly agreed with the logic, the last thing she wanted to do was rehash Barb’s murder with the psychologist. She left Dara and Meg’s house and stopped at a corner bar about two blocks from Doctor Zaulk’s Grand Avenue location where she slipped onto a cracked leather stool at the bar and ordered a double Grey Goose on the rocks.
The bartender asked, “Rough Monday?”
“You might say.” MC took a healthy swallow. She absorbed the cool burn and finished the drink.
MC paid her tab and thanked the bartender. She stuck a stick of spearmint gum into her mouth and slogged the two blocks to her appointment.
Doctor Zaulk’s office was in a refurbished brown brick duplex on Grand Avenue. The doctor lived on the upper floor and her practice was on the lower level.
MC hung her coat on the empty rack in the front foyer. No other coats on the rack must mean no one else was around. She stepped into the waiting room and closed the door. Doctor Zaulk’s rules, posted clearly on the wall, were that patients remain in the waiting room until the doctor came for them.
MC was about to sit when a door on the other side of the room opened and a woman wearing a green cashmere sweater over black wool slacks came in. “Good afternoon, I’m Doctor Zaulk. You must be Mary McCall?”
MC stood. “I actually go by MC, not Mary. No one’s called me Mary in years.”
Doctor Zaulk was about her same height. She had a helmet of sturdy gray hair and wore no jewelry. Her green eyes were a shade that reminded MC of a forest filled with shade-drenched pine trees. Calming was the word that registered in MC’s mind.
“MC it is. Follow me and we’ll get started.” Doctor Zaulk led her down a short hallway and through a set of French doors.
The room was spacious. Muted daylight filtered in through heavy, sheer curtains covering a curved bay window overlooking Grand Avenue. Strategically placed floor lamps made the lighting cozy and inviting.
“Where should I sit?”
“You choose.” Doctor Zaulk retreated to her desk in a back corner of the room to pick up a notebook.
MC considered the choices: mission-style wood rocker; an armchair with golden corduroy cushions and wide sturdy arms; a green beanbag; and two ivory-colored wingback chairs. The seating arrangement was set up around an eight-by-ten-foot rug with soft teals and pops of yellow woven throughout.
MC sat in one of the wingback chairs.
Dr. Zaulk chose the other wingback chair. A round cherry accent table between the two chairs made the setup feel like an afternoon gabfest between two friends.
Doctor Zaulk opened a notebook, a Moleskine, MC noticed.
She studied MC. “Tell me about Barb. And what you’re doing to cope.”
“I guess you know the gist of what happened.”
“I do. But I want to hear your version.”
MC blew out a sigh. She shared the events, beginning with getting called into work on Thanksgiving, the horror show the next morning, and ended with the previous day’s trip to the cabin where she, Dara, and Meg had spread Barb’s ashes. She left out her self-medicating via Grey Goose and the fierceness with which she craved an infusion at this very moment.
“I’m so sorry all of this has happened to you and your beloved partner, MC. You’re going through a most difficult situation, and I’m here to help you navigate through it.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you aware, there are stages of grief you’ll experience? You’re likely to feel a great many uncontrollable emotions in the coming weeks and months. And though this is only our first session so it’s too early to tell, we may find you’ll suffer from PTS. While the incident was not work-related, it was violent and very personal. Are you familiar with PTS—post-traumatic stress?”
“I’ve been to a couple of training sessions about psychology and dealing with people who have it.”
The doctor made a note. “This is good. Let’s talk about some steps you can take to combat the difficulties that lie ahead.”
MC nodded and stared at the butterscotch wood flooring surrounding the woven rug island upon which they were moored. Though the room was steady, she could almost imagine being on a ship chugging off somewhere, waves cresting all around. In her head, birds shrieked and the smell of rotten fish made her head ache. She closed her eyes for a moment. She wanted the session to be done so she could settle the turbulent waves inside her with a drink.
“What do you think? Can you commit to these things?”
Heat rose to her face. Embarrassed she said, “What? Sorry. I missed that.”
“Daily journaling and weekly sessions. At least for the next few weeks.” Doctor Zaulk paused. “Research has proven journaling about one’s feelings is a great form of therapy. Helps the mind process the events and the related emotions.”
“I’m not much for journaling. My job requires so much writing as it is, I don’t see how personal journaling will help me.” She didn’t share the fact she’d already begun recording the events surrounding Barb’s death. A sort of homemade murder book.
Facts.
Details.
Suppositions and theories.
No feelings.
“I hope you’ll reconsider.”
She tightened her hands into fists. “I probably won’t.”
“Could you let me know why you feel that way?”
MC forced her hands to relax. Through a tight jaw, she said, “I don’t think it’ll work for me.”
The doctor frowned. “Writing down your personal feelings can be clarifying, a cleansing of sorts. And believe it or not, it will help your healing. Would you be willing to at least give it a try?”
MC had nothing more to say.
After a moment, the doctor jotted a few more notes. “Our time is up. Shall we meet again next Monday? Same time?”
MC agreed. Anything to get away from the good doctor.
She practically ran from the building and hurried the two blocks to her car. Once inside, she dug out the green notebook from her messenger bag and opened it to the title page. Next to Black Friday she carefully wrote, “Life after Barb.”
Why had she argued with Doctor Zaulk about journaling? She could easily have acquiesced and shared that she’d begun her own version of writing therapy. On second thought, she doubted a murder book would qualify as writing therapy in Doctor Zaulk’s estimation. With a grimace she stashed the book and started the car.
Now that she had escaped the therapy session, she found some energy flowing back, and some of the stress she’d been fe
eling slipped away. She skipped the bar and moved on to the next in an endless series of tasks.
These tasks felt like the Labors of Hercules, countless and all-encompassing, and seemed to be happening in a completely different dimension of space and time. The world surrounding her was real enough, but she felt like she was living her life frame by frame, through a Viewmaster, a jerky one-dimensional existence.
Back at Dara and Meg’s house, MC found Dara at the kitchen table with the newspaper and Meg busy at the stove surrounded by delicious wafts of steam. “Mmm. Chicken soup, Meg?”
“Yes. It should be ready for supper.”
“How ya doing?” Dara peered over the paper as MC slid into a chair across the table.
“Fine. I had an appointment with a therapist. Guess I’ll be seeing her once a week for a while. Part of my return to work deal with Jamie.”
“Good,” Meg said. “Someone to help you sort things out.”
“I guess.” MC flipped through a manila folder of documents.
“You sound less than thrilled,” Dara said.
“Can we talk about something else?” MC wished she had a drink.
“Whatever you want is what we’ll do.” Meg shot Dara a scowl. “Right, Dara?”
MC knew Dara wouldn’t dare argue. “So, I’ve been thinking.”
“I recognize that tone,” Dara said.
“I’ve signed with Midwest Realty to sell the house. Spencer Douglas will handle the sale. We’ve gone through, and he decided what items need to remain for staging. I’ve hired a company to come move the rest to storage.”
“We could’ve helped,” Dara said.
“You two have been generous enough, putting me up for the last ten days. Which brings me to the next task on my list—I need to find a place of my own.”
Meg sat in a chair next to MC and grabbed her hand. “Stay here with us for as long as you need. We’re family.”
“Meg, you’re a sweetheart, and I love you to pieces, but I need to put on my big girl pants and move on.” She was antsy for privacy and itchy for a drink, preferably in her own space.
Dara stared at the newspaper.
Meg stood. “You can be so damned stubborn, MC.” She was only five-foot-three, but she was a force and MC knew to tread carefully.
Dara peeked over the top of the newspaper. “Now you’ve gone and done it, McCall. You know better than to get Meg upset.” She lowered the paper and leaned toward MC, a glint of devilishness flashing in her eyes. “Besides, she’s right. What’s your hurry? We’ve plenty of space and we’re happy to have you here. Where’re you planning to go?”
MC glared at Dara before turning her attention to Meg. “I don’t want to be the constant boarder. You’ve been so supportive, opening your home to me. But I need my own place. Maybe you guys can help me find something?”
She watched Meg’s facial expression fade from consternation to contemplation.
“Suck up,” Dara mumbled.
Meg said, “We will most certainly help you find a place.” She wiped her hands on a dishtowel and rummaged for pen and paper in a drawer. “What are your requirements, madam?” She slipped into a chair. “And you, be quiet.” She pointed her pen at Dara. “I heard your snide comment.”
“Busted.” MC elbowed Dara’s arm.
Dara raised the paper. “I’ll go back to the news and keep my mouth shut.”
MC said, “That’ll be the day.” She pushed aside the folder of papers and pulled from her messenger bag the green hardbound notebook, her “Life after Barb,” the record of navigating through the minutes, hours, and days without Barb.
Dara folded the newspaper in half and sat back in her chair. “Whatcha got there?”
“My life. Literally. I process better when I write stuff down.” MC turned through the many pages of notes she’d made in the aftermath of Barb’s murder, recognizing the irony of her words after her response to Doctor Zaulk’s recommendation.
Pieces of evidence she knew of.
Records of the daily calls to Detective Sharpe, which had elicited nothing more than “Sorry. No news.”
After her session with Doctor Zaulk, she’d added feelings and thoughts.
Lastly, every task or step toward her existence without the love of her life.
“All righty. Carry on.” Dara fingered the newspaper but didn’t open it.
Meg scribbled notes on her own pad of paper. “House? Apartment? Condo?”
MC got up and poured a cup of coffee. “Something simple, Meg. Small. I think an apartment.”
“Okay. Apartment.” Meg crossed off the other options. “We have a start.”
“Wait a sec.” Dara tossed the paper aside. “The manager of those two buildings on Grand and Dale stopped in for a coffee a couple weeks ago, and he mentioned he’d listed a one-bedroom apartment.”
Meg said, “A couple weeks ago? It’s probably been rented by now.”
Dara said, “I guess.”
MC said, “It’s worth checking out. Good location.”
“And close to us.” Dara thumped MC’s arm.
Meg rolled her eyes. “Dara, don’t scare her off.”
MC said, “Dara’s right. For once in her life.”
They all laughed.
“I’ll get my laptop and search the net. See if I can find a listing.” MC grabbed her piles and stowed everything in her messenger bag and hustled up to her room.
She was able to locate a contact online and to her amazement, the apartment was still available. She set up an appointment to see the place next Monday morning.
Then she phoned Jamie and asked to extend her time off work until the following Thursday, December eighteenth, a week before Christmas.
That taken care of, she checked her email and sifted through condolence messages from co-workers and found an email from Sergeant Wilcox at the MPD Forensic Garage. The email had come in the Monday after Thanksgiving.
She opened the message and scanned it. Wilcox had been on vacation and apologized for not sending the photos before leaving. She opened the file containing images of Arty’s BMW. She scoured each photo.
Nothing stuck out. She viewed the pictures again and stopped at the one showing the keys in the ignition. She zoomed in on a gold key that caught her attention.
MC retrieved her keys from her coat pocket and held up a key she’d recently obtained. “USPS 342840” was stamped on hers, which was very much like the one in the picture. Clearly a post office box key.
She enlarged the image and squinted. The key on Arty’s ring was a similar gold key, but she couldn’t see if there were any identifying numbers or letters on it. “Damn.” Still she thought the keys were enough alike that it warranted investigating.
She saved the photo of the keys to her desktop and sent an email to Cam with the picture and her thoughts. Then she called him.
“Hey,” Cam answered. “How are you doing?”
“I’m okay. Busy. Had my first psych appointment today.” She took a deep breath. “I was going through my email and Wilcox had sent me pics of Arty’s car a week ago.”
“MC, you shouldn’t be thinking about work. Focus on you.”
“We’ve had this discussion already. Don’t shut me out. I need this. Call it part of my healing process. I could investigate stuff on my own and not involve you if you prefer.” She may have come across too harsh, but she wasn’t about to back down.
After a long pause, he said, “Jesus. Okay. But we better not let Jamie or Crapper know. What’ve you got?”
“Keys. Or rather a key. I think Arty may have a PO Box somewhere. When I reviewed the photo of his keys, there’s one like the one I have for my PO Box. Gold. Mine has USPS and a six-digit number stamped on it.”
“You want me to put in a request with postal management to search the post office box database?”
MC said, “You’re a mind reader. Email’s already in your inbox. And you’ll let me know as soon as you hear, right? Promise me, Cam.”
“I’ll see what I can find out. I promise.”
“You’re the best. Give Jane and the kiddos a hug for me.”
“Will do. Take care.”
“Thanks. Talk soon.” She disconnected and studied the photo one more time. Fingers crossed they’d get a hit from the database search.
Chapter Fourteen
Monday, December 15
Stewie Levine, the apartment building manager, met MC at nine Monday morning. A Danny DeVito doppelganger, Stewie heaved his stubby bulk up to the third floor with MC hot on his heels.
“These stairs are gonna be the death of me,” he huffed.
“No elevator?” MC didn’t mind, but without an elevator moving furniture up to the third floor would be a bitch.
“Not in this old place.” He stopped at the second door on the right. “It’s a one bedroom.” Stewie unlocked the old worn oak door. “Solid construction.” He tapped his knuckles on the jamb and stepped inside.
“Yes, I can see.” She followed him into a living room with maple wood floors shining in the morning sun.
“Closet?” She opened a door directly behind the entrance.
“Yep. Eat-in kitchen. Stove and refrigerator are new.”
MC trailed Stewie into the living room and down a short hallway. The bathroom had a claw foot tub with shower, and the bedroom was sizable.
He said, “Wood floors throughout.”
“I’ll take it.”
“I’ll need first and last month’s rent along with a three-hundred-dollar damage deposit. Total is nineteen hundred and thirty bucks. Rent’s eight-fifteen a month. We should talk about how long a lease you’re looking for, and will you be the only tenant?” His beady eyes gazed up at her like a ratty pup, then flashed on the ring on her left hand.
Jesus, was he hitting on her? “For now, I’m interested in a six-month lease. I’ll be the only tenant.”