by Tom Bierdz
“Is Emily?”
“Well!” He looked surprised at my question. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. She doesn’t look like the type.”
People made assumptions about what others did by how they looked and acted. Back when I was in high school the girls who wore provocative clothing, showed a little skin, and were, maybe, caught kissing in the halls, were deemed as the ‘fast’ or ‘slutty’ types. I’ve treated a couple of adolescents like that who were not anything like their ‘types’. It still holds true that you can’t judge a book by its cover. But I didn’t think this was a time for a teaching moment.
“Greg, there’s also a lot of kids your age and older who are not having sex. You’re getting way ahead of yourself. Take it a day at a time. See where this thing with Emily goes. Don’t start putting up obstacles. If you listen to yourself and pay attention to your feelings, you’ll know when it’s right for you to engage in sex. And I’m here if you need to talk about this again.”
I couldn’t remember having any of those meaningful father-son discussions about sex with Kevin. I made broad generalizations about being discriminating, using condoms so he didn’t get anyone pregnant, and how his future demanded a college education, but he never approached me with any specifics. I don’t think he ever approached Hanna either. If he had, she never shared it with me. I had to stop lamenting about what I didn’t do with Kevin and concentrate on Gregory.
Thankfully, Greg changed the subject. “I almost forgot,” He said, digging into his backpack, “I brought the photos.”
I moved to the couch and began looking at them. He had oodles of pictures of eagles in flight, perched on wires, on tree tops, and even a few with eagles feeding their young. The shots were first class, good as any professional photos I’d seen.
“Those violet-green birds on the telephone line are swallows,” he said, looking over my shoulder, and the one with a white rump is a northern flicker.”
“And this is a doe and her fawn,” I said, holding a photo showing them in mid-air leaping over ferns.
I shuffled through the glossies with deep admiration for Greg’s talent, doing a double-take on a photo of the boat house. I scrutinized it closer, handed it to Greg and pointed, “Greg, look, right in that corner. What is that?”
“Looks like a rowboat.”
“That’s what I thought.” I tried to piece together the time between when the Sunday Megan called on me concerned about Sasha drowning herself after spotting the rowboat far out to sea, supposedly floating away, and our trip out to Brawny Lake when Greg took the pictures. Why was there a rowboat by the boathouse if it had drifted away? Nick could have rescued it, towed it back with his boat, or they could have bought a replacement. That is what I would have assumed had I no suspicions of Megan. Megan said Sasha went out for a walk, so I knew Sasha hadn’t gone out on the lake. If it had not drifted away and been brought back, then Megan lied to me. Why?
“Greg, how would like to go back to the area, shoot some more film?”
“Sure.” His face lit up.
We made plans to go back to the lake. I didn’t know what I expected to find, only that a strong impulse was driving me there.
35
Bobby was out for three days with some kind of virus that kept him in bed most of the time. I manned the office on my own. It was inefficient and inconvenient but workable on a temporary basis. I’d managed this way when Grace missed work on rare occasions. She sent me a post card from Paris, reminding me she wouldn’t be back to work for yet another month.
Although my mind was on Megan whenever it wasn’t focused elsewhere, I avoided her. Her threat to report me to the American Psychiatric Association could not be ignored; yet, I wasn’t ready to confront her without some kind of plan in mind. And, the more I learned of Megan, the more anxious I became. I needed to get to Nick’s place and check out the rowboat. Finding it would be one more thing to weigh the scale against her. A part of me wanted it to have drifted out to sea as Megan said; the same part of me that wondered what nightgown she wore to bed.
Yesterday Megan called when I was in therapy and left a message on my machine that she had drafted a complaint letter, and would sent it to the appropriate authorities if I didn’t soon move back in. She added that I shouldn’t bother getting back to her unless I planned to live with her.
We got off to a late start on our ride to Brawny Lake. After picking up Greg in my taxi, we had to motor to the storage facility where I kept my Porsche, and then wait for the owner to unlock the gate before I could get into my unit. He had to take his wife who fell and broke her leg to the hospital. His stand-by wouldn’t answer his phone. It was raining softly and we had to squeeze against the building where we were shielded by the overhang. We quickly lost the desire to speak and silently waited for the owner who assured me by phone that he was on his way. I had an urge to go home if this was any indicator how the rest of the day would go.
Greg perked up once he got behind the wheel of the Porsche. His mood elevated mine and soon we had deserted the city for the country roads, passing rolling hills and grazing cows, homes under construction, strawberry fields, and trees bursting with color. Dogwoods in white, red, and yellow, pear trees in white and plum, and cherry in varying shades of pink: a painter’s pallet.
Greg eased off the wipers as the sun broke through and drove off the clouds. He told me that Emily was easy to talk to and that he was more comfortable now. They were spending more time together and she didn’t mind that he didn’t have all the technological gadgets and offered hers to use. She liked that he was interested in nature and wanted to go birding with him some time.
As we neared the store where we bought the film, I asked, tongue in cheek, “You have the film?” which led to a verbal replay of our last trip.
Although Greg was off from school it was a work day and I assumed Nick would not be home, so I didn’t bother knocking at the door and asking for permission to enter onto his property. Greg parked in front of the house and we sauntered to the boathouse in search of the rowboat. The image on the photo was minute, and I wanted to be sure it was there before accusing Megan of lying to me. The boathouse was nothing fancy, a sand colored, corrugated steel structure with a pitched roof, just large enough to contain Nick’s boat. A lakeside, steel roll up door kept out the elements and a boat lift raised it out of the water. From a distance we spotted what appeared to be an upside down rowboat resting in the grass on the near side of the boathouse.
“There it is,” Greg said, moving to it.
I nodded, observing the lime and mineral water stain build up on the hull. This was not a new rowboat.
“Hey! This is private property. Get away from that boat!”
I turned to see Nick, cautiously approaching with a shotgun. He dressed in baggy jeans, boat shoes, no socks, blue windbreaker, and a ship captain’s hat initialed with SYC which I took to stand for the Seattle Yacht Club.
“It’s Grant Garrick, Nick.” I raised my arms.
“Megan’s friend.” He lowered his gun. “What are you doing here, Grant?”
I offered my hand. “This is Greg, a friend.”
Acknowledging him with a nod, He repeated, “Why are you here?”
“I wanted to see your rowboat. Some time ago Megan claimed Sasha...” I hesitated, hit with a need to be sensitive to Nick’s feelings. “Megan said she saw your rowboat far out to sea, that it had drifted away.”
Confusion blanketed his face. “Not to my knowledge.”
“This is not a new rowboat?”
“No.”
“Did you have another rowboat in addition to this one?”
“No.”
“Did you tow this one in from the lake?”
“No! Why the twenty questions?”
“I needed to know if Megan lied to me.” I turned to Greg. “Why don’t you go off and take your photos.” I explained to Nick that he was a birder and burgeoning photographer.
“Megan’s a first class liar. She could beat
a lie-detector machine.” Bad-mouthing Megan relaxed him, drove out the tension. “I was about to take the boat out. Want a ride?”
Skimming the lake with a sea breeze on my face would have been a good idea on another day. “No, but I’d love to see it.” Leaving my footprints in the wet sand I followed Nick to the boathouse, apologizing for not checking with him before accessing his property.
The rollup door had been raised and the thirty-three foot white cruiser, with a marine blue Bimini top, powered by twin 500 horsepower engines, had been lowered into the water. I hopped on as Nick pridefully showed me the cockpit which seated six and had a built-in wet bar, then led me into the full galley with cherry cabinets and white Corian countertops with sleeping accommodations for four.
“She used to be my mistress. My one and only now that Sasha’s gone.”
I wondered about that remembering Megan telling me that Sasha suspected he was having an affair with another woman after finding a pair of earrings in the boat. But it was not my place to question Nick about his personal life. “How close were Sasha and Megan?”
“Like peas in a pod. I assume you know that Megan practically raised Sasha after both parents had died. The State wanted to put Sasha in a foster home but Megan, barely 18, fought for her. They did everything together.” He opened the fridge, took out two bottles of beer, handed me one. “I don’t mind telling you there were times I resented Megan’s interference. She was always nosing into Sasha’s business, taking her side, pitting her against me. But they had their fights like all sisters do. Sasha hated Megan bossing her. I was grateful when Megan was involved with someone, less tuned in to Sasha like when she was with you, or married.”
“Megan was married?” Every muscle in my abdomen clenched, as though steeling against a punch.
“You didn’t know that?”
“No.”
“More than once I think.”
“When? Who?”
“I don’t know. I never paid it much attention. It was before I knew Sasha.”
“And you knew her how long?”
“Four years. Married almost three.” Hoisting himself on a stool, he swiveled toward me and drank thoughtfully as though the taste was an idea forming in his mind. “Jack. I seem to recollect Sasha referring to Jack as Megan’s husband.”
“What else?”
“That’s it. Like I said it was way in the past. We didn’t talk about it, and Sasha never said Megan complained about...Wait a minute...I was thinking of a bitter divorce but I think she was a widow.”
“Her husband died?”
“I think so.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. I’m not even positive he died.”
“And the other or others?”
“Grant, why are you asking me? You should be asking Megan.”
Because she told me she never married. “You’re right. Megan hasn’t been very open with me. There are a lot of big gaps I need to fill. We’re sort of on the outs right now.” The bottle in my hand began to shake from anger, fear, or both. I steadied it between my knees. “At Sasha’s funeral you warned me about Megan, advised me to get out of the relationship, why?”
“Because she’s destructive. She’ll wear you down and destroy you. Like I said, she would poison Sasha against me. Always interfering. She was always there for Sasha, but somehow she had a way of making Sasha feel bad about herself. And Sasha’s dead. Whether Megan killed her, or caused her to kill herself, the outcome’s the same. She’s gone.” He had struggled to hold it altogether but the tear finally broke through. With a deft movement of his hand, he wiped it away. “I still haven’t got my head around how Megan could have killed the sister she loved and was so close to, but Detective Rollins has got me thinking. He told me he had talked to you so I assume you know about the bruises, that Sasha’s fingerprints weren’t on the pill bottle.”
“Yeah. Megan has to be considered a suspect.”
We got on to other subjects, stopped talking about Megan. Nick talked about his love of boating, about some of the trips he had taken. I politely listened but my mind was preoccupied with Megan and how she had lied and used me.
36
Still in a fog on the way home, I was only half there for Greg as he rambled on about the shots he got and his desire to have the film quickly developed. I told him to take them in and I would call in the payment. He clued in to my unwillingness to talk and drove silently most of the way. Needing to do something physical, I had Greg drive me home so I could wash the car and have a taxi drive him home.
“Get your wheels back, Dr. Garrick?”
I had just finished sudsing up the Porsche in my driveway when Detective Rollins marched over. “Not yet, but there’s no law that says I can’t wash it.” I picked up the hose to rinse it. I had a burning urge to spray the detective. “Move over Detective, I’ve got to wash the soap off.”
“Nice wheels,” he said, watching me. “Must be cool having a hot car and a hot dame.”
“This was my graduation present when I completed psychiatry school.” I hosed off the other side. “I’ll give you a ride sometime.”
“If I don’t give you one first.” He snickered, thought he was clever.
I turned off the hose, picked up two chamois cloths, threw one to Rollins.
Scowling, he tossed it back. “Careful there, Doc. You don’t know who you’re playing with.”
I wiped the car, wrung out the chamois. “Maybe if you stopped with all the innuendos and tell me why you’re here.”
He pulled out a cigar butt out of his shirt pocket and relighted it, sending a plume of smoke into the air. “The toxicology report came back.”
“Zoloft?”
“Yeah, enough to drop a horse.” He moved closer. “Sasha Kovich only had a fourteen day supply from her doctor. There had to be another source. I’m thinking that a psychiatrist would have a shitload of pharmaceuticals.” He sucked vigorously on his cigar, bringing it back to life. “Making it easy for his girlfriend.”
I had been drying off the car as he talked. Suddenly, I stopped. My stomach clenched. I was right suspecting some of my meds were missing. Did the slippery fingers belong to Megan? Was I suspected of being an accessory to murder? “Obvious, detective, psychotropic medications are an important part of the therapeutic process.” I wrung out the chamois like it was Rollins’ neck dripping blood. “It’s a cheap shot to accuse me. And you have to know I keep my drug supply locked in my office, not in my home.”
“Of course,” he said, sucking like a vacuum to reignite his cigar, then giving up and squashing it with his foot on my drive. “ I’ll get a subpoena when I want to check your drugs. My purpose today was merely to alert you to the toxicology report. I needed to share my excitement with someone and you came to mind.” Inching into my space, a little more than a foot away, he peered into my face. “You don’t seem to share my excitement.”
He stepped back before I could shove him back. “We don’t all march to the same drummer.” I felt the heat rise from my face.
He walked around the Porsche checking it out. “Have you come up with a solution to the puzzle?”
“What puzzle?”
“How Sasha took the pills and left no fingerprints.”
Feeling a flash of insight, I said, “She used her hand. You said there was only one prescription bottle.”
“One prescription container from Dr. Sam Allende and another Zoloft container, probably a sampler, the one without the prints.”
I frowned. “No solution.”
“Hmm. I thought you’d come up with something like psychokinesis. You know, the power of the mind.”
“Very funny, Detective.”
He got back in my face. I smelled garlic on his breath. “You see, Doc, I’m pretty sure your girlfriend did it. I’m still on the fence about you, but this report is pretty damning. Maybe if you were to help me pin it on her I could see how you were exploited. Most men are saps for a gorgeous woman. We can’t help i
t. That’s our nature. But when you continue to protect her when the evidence continues to build against her, you appear complicit.” With an avuncular shake of his head, he added, “She’s not worth it. No woman is.”
I watched him walk away knowing I hadn’t seen the last of him. If Megan murdered her sister with my drugs I could be an accessory. I could do jail time as well as losing my practice. My life was going from bad to worse.
I felt I needed to talk to Megan. Her message said not to call unless I was moving back in, but I was a jumble of nerves. Maybe she could shed some light. I called her.
“Grant, it’s about time you come to your senses. When are you moving back in?” There was a bounce in her voice like a contest winner.
“I’m not.” I braced myself for her reaction, needing to keep her on the line to ask my questions.
“Then this conversation is over...”
“Wait! I need to ask you something” She stayed on the line. “Sasha’s rowboat didn’t wash out to sea. Why did you lie to me?”
“I didn’t. I told you Sasha went for a walk, didn’t take her phone.”
“Yeah, but what was all that business about her wanting to drown herself? You’re seeing the rowboat far out to sea?”
A devious laugh. “Men are so dumb. I’m attracted to you. I fabricated a story so you would see me outside the office. It worked. We had dinner together. Grant, you must know that women pull little tricks on their men all the time to get what they want. It’s who we are. You want to make a big deal about it, go ahead. Is it a lie? Maybe a little white lie. Probably no different from when you tell a patient everything is going to be all right.”
I didn’t tell that to patients unless I was reasonably certain of the future.
“So when are you moving back in?” she continued.
“I need more time to think about it.” I didn’t. I wasn’t moving back in. This was my little white lie to buy some more time, to resolve the myriad of questions jumbled in my mind.
“The clock is ticking. I think you know that I’ll follow through on my threat if I have to.”