* * *
I'd been wanting to talk to Dr. Rythersen, the homeopathic practitioner, in the hopes he was Ryan's father and could offer up some helpful information, ideally a confession. So the next day, during a slow period at work, I headed over to his office, which he shared with a trio of more traditional physicians.
Harried-looking adults and screeching children packed the waiting room. Someone began a coughing jag that never seemed to stop. I joined the line at the reception desk, trying not to recoil when the child ahead of me sneezed without covering his mouth. Finally, I made it to the front, health miraculously still intact for the time being.
"Yes?" the receptionist asked in a harassed tone.
"Hi. I was hoping to speak to Dr. Rythersen for a few minutes."
"Did you check in? Do you have an appointment?"
"No… He's not my doctor. I just wanted to ask him a medical question."
"Miss, I'm afraid he can't see you unless you have an appointment. As you can see, there are many people with appointments who are waiting."
"Can you just tell him that a friend of his son's wants to talk to him?"
She didn't contradict me by saying he didn't have a son. But she also didn't say anything courteous either. Instead, she flounced off and headed for the back of the office.
When she returned, she said, "He'll talk to you when he's done with his current patient. But he doesn't have much time. We're very busy, as you can see, with people who have appointments."
"Thank you so much," I said with an ingratiating smile.
She just frowned some more. Okay, fine. We weren't going to be besties. I could live with that.
Dr. Rythersen was very friendly, in contrast to the receptionist. He directed me to sit in the consultation chair in his office, and he settled in behind his desk. He looked a little like Santa Claus, with a white beard and white hair, a bit of a paunch, and an overall jolly appearance. Inappropriately, I wondered what he would think if I climbed into his lap and gave him my Christmas list. At the top of my wish list? The real murderer, wrapped up in a big red bow.
"You're a friend of Ryan's?" Dr. Rythersen began.
Oh, good. He was definitely Ryan's dad. "Yes. Well, we only just met, but I feel that we're friends already. He mentioned you were a homeopathic doctor. I've been having problems with urinary tract infections, and I've tried a bunch of things, but nothing has worked. I read that curare could help." There were so many lies in my speech I was surprised my nose didn't sprout an extra few inches.
He laughed. "I think you'd have to go to South America for that. It's not something we tend to use here in the states. Not anymore, anyway. At one time it was used in surgery."
I decided to take the truth route. "I'm Ashling Cleary. I run StoryWorld."
"Ah. The scene of Katrina's murder. Horrible business, that."
"I'm not really interested in taking curare. But I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions about it."
"All right, I see now. I read in the paper that the toxicology reports came back indicating curare had been found in her system. It struck me as odd. The paper didn’t go into specifics of how she came to be poisoned by curare."
"Sometime before the play, the killer broke off the plastic covering the spindle on the spinning wheel and smeared the curare on the tip. She stuck herself during the play, and the poison got into her bloodstream."
A beat went by as Dr. Rythersen absorbed this. "Okay, shoot. I'll help if I can."
He was really rather nice. I had serious doubts he would have helped Ryan murder Katrina. But perhaps I could cull some important information from him. I asked him about the curare mixture.
"I'm not sure what the mixture would be, actually. It's my understanding the natives used other things besides curare. Though I suppose in just the right amount, the curare vine itself could be fatal. But it would really have to be exact."
Hmm. Interesting. "Okay. So someone would have to have the specific knowledge?"
He smiled. "I would think so. I certainly couldn't have done it."
This wasn't especially good news. Who would have the specific knowledge? A picture of Charlie popped into my head, Professor of Botany at Springdale University. Terrific. But this wasn't Dr. Rythersen's fault. "You've been very helpful, Dr. Rythersen. Thank you."
"I should be thanking you for being Ryan's friend. He's prone to mental illness, and I think losing Katrina has hit him quite hard. I'm worried he'll fall into a depression. I wish I could help him." His jovial demeanor had left the building.
"Sometimes just being there is good enough," I said, switching gears from my worries about Charlie and Donna. "I have some experience with this. The support of family and friends helps a lot."
"I will keep that in mind. Thank you, Ashling."
We stood. He shook my hand, and I left, making sure to scamper past the receptionist, though not fast enough to miss the scowl on her face.
In the elevator, I abandoned the theory of Dr. Rythersen helping Ryan kill Katrina by obtaining the curare and preparing it. And, assuming the doctor was right about his son, Ryan hadn't acted on his own either. According to his dad, Ryan was devastated over the loss of his love. Surely he didn't kill her. But that didn't let Mariana off the hook.
Backing my car out in the parking lot, I almost crashed into a minivan when I saw a couple of familiar faces in the convertible swinging into the open space across from me. I couldn't believe it. It was Ryan and Mariana—Mariana driving, her long dark hair streaming out the top of the car. What was Ryan doing with Mariana so soon after Katrina's death? When he was supposedly devastated by his loss? Perhaps I'd been wrong about him. Maybe I was wrong about his father too. Dr. Rythersen might have lied about not knowing how to mix up the curare. Perhaps the three of them had even been in collusion.
Before I got crazy with all my theories, I stopped myself from jumping to conclusions. There could be an innocent explanation for Ryan being here with Mariana. Maybe he'd recommended his father's services, and she had an appointment with Dr. Rythersen. Time to find out.
I hunkered down in my seat and watched Mariana give Ryan a long kiss, which blew my innocent theory out of the water. Then Ryan got out of the car and trotted into the building as Mariana sped away.
I leaped out of my car and raced after Ryan, gearing myself up to confront him. I might be getting better at confrontation, but I still didn't like it. The thought of Donna and Charlie behind bars gave me the incentive to keep calm and carry on. I followed him into the elevator without him noticing. When he turned around to choose his floor, his eyes grew wide when he saw me.
"Yeah, it's me," I said, pushing the seventh floor button for him. We were the only two people in the elevator, which probably should have given me pause. "Interesting. I could have sworn I just saw you with Mariana. Kissing her, actually. And since Katrina's dead, you don't have to pretend to be involved with her anymore. So, what's the deal, Ryan? Did you and Mariana conspire to kill Katrina? Did your dad get the curare ready for you and you applied it to the spindle?"
He reached around me and pushed the stop button on the panel. The elevator jerked to a halt. My heart thundered against my chest. What had I done? Why, oh why, hadn't I listened to Scott? Why did I get involved in this? What made me think I could catch a murderer? Why did I think I could do better than the professionals? Maybe my typical avoidance of confrontation was the better way to go. It had kept me alive up until now, hadn't it? Clearly, Ryan was going to kill me. Maybe he had a syringe filled with curare on hand at all times. Or he'd just strangle me. Instinctively, my hands went to my neck.
But…his expression wasn't threatening. It was pained. He started crying. Bawling, really.
"Um. It's okay. Ryan, it's okay. I didn't mean it. I take it back. I'm sorry." I awkwardly patted his shoulder.
Once the worst of the crying had passed, he said in a constricted voice, "I miss her so much. Yes, I'm back together with Mariana. But I'll never love her
like I loved Katrina. I guess I just needed comfort, you know?"
I nodded. I did know. Although I'd never told anyone, even Donna or my mom, three months after Jamie's death, I agreed to go out with Jonathan, the supplier of the storybox keys we sold at the customer service center at StoryWorld. I left halfway through the date (hmm, I seemed to have a history of that), and I'd regretted it ever since. But I understood the need for comfort, the wish to feel desired again. In grief, we did all sorts of things we wouldn't normally do.
"Ryan, I'm sorry. I really am. I know how you feel."
"You do?"
"My boyfriend died a few years ago. It was the worst thing that's ever happened to me. I didn't know if I would make it."
He looked at me through his tears. "How did you get through?"
"It's a cliché, but the only way through it is through it. You have to allow yourself to feel everything—sadness, guilt, even relief." Surely, at some point, Ryan would feel this last emotion in spades, despite his protestations about Katrina's goodness. "It's taken a long time, and I'm not really completely over it yet, but I'm better. I promise it won't ever hurt as much as it does now."
He dried his tears with his sleeve, and I tamped down the impulse to give him a tissue instead. "Really?"
"Yeah. Really."
"That helps a lot. I'm glad I ran into you."
It was more that I'd run after him, but I let it go.
"I was going up to see my dad, but he's not always the most helpful person, you know? He's a deal-with-it, stiff-upper-lip kind of guy. The type who believes that you suck it up and move on."
I nodded, thinking he should give his father more credit. The man I'd met seemed quite different from what Ryan described. Was Ryan a stunningly bad judge of character? First Katrina and now his father?
"I'm sorry to hear that. Look, here's my business card. Give me a call anytime you want, if you want to talk. Or just come by the park. Grieving is hard. It helps to talk with someone who's been through it."
He took the card and gave me a quick hug before starting the elevator. "Thanks, Ashling. I really appreciate it."
I saw him to the seventh floor and then headed back down to my car.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Ryan knocked on the office door the next morning. He seemed to be holding something, so I got up to let him in. He'd brought scones and coffee, and I stopped myself from blurting out we could have just gone to the Jack Sprat.
"I wondered if we could talk," he said. He hadn't wasted any time taking me up on my offer, but I didn't mind. I knew what a difficult place he was in.
We settled down with the treats.
After a bit of small talk, Ryan said, "I hope they arrest the killer soon. I didn't really care much at first. It's not like catching the murderer will bring her back. But the person should pay for what he's done."
"I want that too. But I think it's good you know it won't make that much of a difference when they do. You'll still be grieving."
He nodded. "Sometimes I…I pretend she's not really gone. I make believe she's still alive and on location somewhere. It makes it easier, you know? To think she's going to come back."
I didn't respond, but I had done the same thing. To be truthful, I still did. After a while, I reiterated what I'd told him in the elevator. "It will get better. Really. Trust me, I know."
"I'm going to have to break it off with Mariana. That was a dumb idea. She'll be mad."
"Yeah, I think you'll have to bite the bullet." Whoops. Probably not the best turn of phrase. On the heels of my self-recrimination, an unpleasant thought struck me. If Mariana had acted on her own to kill Katrina because she wanted Ryan back, would she now kill Ryan if he broke up with her?
"I appreciate the talk," Ryan was saying. "Can we do it again soon?"
"Sure. And, Ryan…"
"What?"
"Be careful."
"Be careful? Of what?"
"You know, just in case."
"I'll be fine," he said with a smile, and, for the first time, I understood what Katrina and Mariana saw in him. His smile, warm and open, changed his entire appearance. His eyes lit up, and a small dimple in his left cheek appeared. He was really quite attractive.
* * *
I had another surprise visitor later that day, about an hour after I'd watched the day's performance of Snow White. Jamie's little sister, Becca, came in the door, looking adorable in a shirt with a pregnant giraffe on the front. She and the giraffe were both as far along in their pregnancies as you could get without actually giving birth, and I fleetingly wondered if I'd be able to deliver a baby if it came down to it. Becca's baby, not the giraffe's, that was.
Becca's curly brown hair was longer than the last time I'd seen her, and her green eyes were bright behind tortoiseshell frames. I hugged her, and as I withdrew, I felt a little kick from the baby.
"I think I felt him! It's a him, right?"
Becca nodded. "Yep. Bring on the baseball bats and soccer balls. Or dolls. Whatever he wants." She laughed. "I'm so sorry I haven't been in touch lately. I think that was the last email I sent you, about the sex."
"Oh, Becca, no. It's not your fault. I haven't been communicating well myself. What with the murder and all."
"That was so sad. Poor Katrina. I was a big fan."
Of course. Becca was in her early twenties and presumably smack dab within Katrina's target audience.
"Yes, it was sad," I said, not completely untruthfully.
"You got to meet her, right? Was she wonderful?"
Should I tell her the truth? That Katrina was incredibly unpleasant? Becca was eagerly awaiting my answer. What would be the point of disappointing her?
"I did meet her, yes. She was…interesting."
Fortunately for me, Donna walked into the office right then, so I didn't need to come up with any fabrications. She said hello to us and gently hugged Becca.
"It's good to see you, hon," Donna said. "Any day now! How are you feeling?"
"Much better than at the beginning. But I'm ready for this little one to come. Joey and I are so anxious to meet him."
Reminded again that Becca was having a boy, I wondered if the baby would look like Jamie. The idea was so fraught with emotion I pushed it down to deal with later.
"Are you guys ready? Is everything set up?" Donna asked.
"Almost. I'm still trying to collect everything we need. Which is one of the reasons I'm here. Of course, I wanted to see you guys, but I have something to ask you too."
"I'm all ears," Donna said.
"Me too," I agreed. "Well, that and stomach and butt."
Becca giggled. "Ashling, stop it. You look great. Anyway, my mom is throwing me a baby shower. I didn't want one—I always thought they were so silly—but she kept pushing for it, so I finally said it was okay. I know it couldn't be more last minute, but it's tomorrow! It's the only day that worked for my aunt and my cousins. Say you'll come. Please."
"Try to keep us away," Donna said, and I bobbed my head in agreement.
* * *
That night I dreamed not about babies and giraffes but about Dinah. She had died after all, and I must have died too, because we seemed to be in heaven together. She scampered up to me, and I crouched down to pet her. As she had so often in life, she rubbed her nose against mine. She looked the same as always, with one notable exception: she was wearing mascara.
"Dinah! I'm so sorry about the chocolate. You have no idea. I hope you forgive me."
"No worries." She fell onto her back for tummy scratches, seemingly unbothered by the fact I'd inadvertently killed her. I obliged with the scratches, and she grabbed my hand playfully with her paws.
I wasn't at all surprised she could talk.
"You were very good to me," she said as I sat down cross-legged for her to climb into my lap. "Yummy food, nice scratches, a comfortable place to have naps. Even all those kisses you gave me were okay. And I didn't mind so much that I had to wear a collar. You were so worried ab
out that. But it was a lot better than some cats have it. A lot of the cats around here had to wear costumes and hats and things. But the collar was fine."
"I was afraid it would choke you."
"It didn't. Anyway, you treated me very well. I was lucky to have you."
"I loved you. It's what you do when you care about someone. You treat them well."
She purred and gave me another nose rub.
"Um. Dinah? Have you seen Jamie?"
"Sure. He's here. Katrina's here. Everyone's here. Everyone who's dead, that is." Then she laughed a great big laugh, her ears and tail shaking in amusement, and she batted her mascaraed eyelashes.
"Is Jamie happy here?"
"Look around. It's a good place."
I realized then that our heaven was actually a romanticized version of StoryWorld. The grass was clipped and perfectly green, all the flowers were blooming, and chipped paint was now gleaming and new. There was a beautiful field of red and white roses like the ones Scott had given me for the Fourth of July. We even had new sets, including one of Sleeping Beauty that looked just like my snow globe. Without moving, I could see every part of the park at once. Every bit was flawless.
"It seems nice," I agreed.
"Yes. It's very nice. Lots of fish and chocolate for me to eat. Chocolate isn't bad for me here. I can have all I want, and I don't get sick."
"That's good. So…Katrina's here, you said?"
"Yeah. She's really nice. She gives me treats and plays with me."
At that point, I woke up. I rose and started my morning ablutions, still lost in the dream. What in the world did it mean? I was glad my subconscious believed Dinah was happy with me and didn't blame me for the chocolate and Jamie was in a nice place. Maybe I wouldn't examine the dream further—although, "when you care about someone, that's what you do" stuck with me. Was my subconscious trying to tell me I wasn't treating Scott well? I probably wasn't. Not the way he deserved, anyway. But I still didn't know what I wanted when it came to him.
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