Everybody Called Her a Saint

by Cecil Murphey

  Ten months later we ran into each other at the Cartledge Inn near Stone Mountain, Georgia. Again there was a murder, and we worked together to solve that one.

  “So now you are here and you will solve this murder, is that not so?” Captain Robert asked. At first I thought he was being cynical, but as I looked at his face, I knew he had asked a serious question.

  “We would like to try,” Burton said.

  “As I told you earlier . . .” Once again without warning, my eyes clouded with tears. “Twila Belk was my best friend.”

  “I was her pastor,” Burton said. “She was also like a second mother. I have to do what I can.”

  “Of course, you must do what you can,” the captain said. “I cannot give you official permission to do this, but I shall assist you in any way possible.”

  “Will you encourage the others to cooperate with us?” I asked.

  The captain pondered the question for a few minutes before he answered. “Yes, yes, I can do that.” He also said he would come to the dining room during breakfast, which was served at seven, and speak to the passengers.

  We thanked the captain and left him.

  I was tired but didn’t know if I could sleep. I went into the room and didn’t bother to undress. I was sure I would lie awake.

  The next moment of awareness was when I looked at my watch. It was 5:30 a.m. Despite the rocking of the waves, I had slept an hour or two.

  I wanted to stay in the room and read, but I didn’t dare. Betty was likely to awaken. She’s one of those people who loves to talk when she has nothing to say. Harmless enough, I suppose, but it was tiring to listen to her constant chatter. I’d tried several times to turn her off by mumbling an occasional word or nodding while my mind focused on other things. She had the most disconcerting habit of punctuating every second sentence with my name. Hearing my name snapped me back to attention, and I resented it. I enjoyed my own thoughts more.

  I hurried to the bathroom for a one-handed shower. After I dressed, I put the pages I’d torn from Twila’s manuscript in my shoulder bag and went to the dining room. A small light glowed so no one would knock over the furniture. I snapped on a lamp in the far corner and sat down. I laid my shoulder bag on the table, pulled out Twila’s case studies, and began to read. Although I had no idea of the identity of any of the clients, the studies fascinated me. Despite the formal tone, Twila had been meticulous in her details. She clearly delineated between the objective results of tests and her own interpretations. I must have dozed off, because I awakened to the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. I got up and poured myself a cup. As I drank, I looked around. Burton was asleep in the corner. He had probably been there the entire time.

  I must have awakened him, because he looked up and stretched. “Is the coffee good?”

  “Is that the masculine way of asking me to bring you a cup?”

  “You catch on quickly,” he said and stretched again.

  I poured him a cup, added a spoon of milk, and carried it to him. As I walked toward him, I was ready to make another smart-mouthed remark, but the cad beat me to it.

  “Keep it up and you’ll make a macho type out of me yet and allow you to bring me coffee regularly.”

  “You make it; I’ll pour it,” I said and wished I hadn’t. Once again, the language was getting too familiar.

  Burton thanked me for the coffee and sipped it absently. “I’ve read about half of my pages. The style doesn’t make for great reading—”

  “Unless you like to read case studies,” I said. “I read hundreds of them during my student days.” I took a few sips of my coffee and added, “And I liked them, then. The style hasn’t changed, but the material is fascinating.”

  “If you say so,” he said. He went back to his reading.

  Both of us focused on the manuscript. Without saying it, I think we realized that time was running out. Our ship would soon navigate the Drake Passage, and many of the passengers would stay in their rooms because of motion sickness.

  He stretched and said, “I think it’s time for me to clean up and shave before the others start lining up for the showers.” He grabbed the book cover and inserted his manuscript inside, took his dirty cup back to the serving table, and left.

  I watched him walk away.

  Instead of getting further away from the man, I’m getting closer again. That’s not what I planned.

  Sixteen

  I had long been impressed with Twila’s insight and her amazing intuition about people. But the book amazed me even more. Just from reading the first four case studies, I felt I knew the clients and understood why Twila was such an effective psychiatrist.

  “Excuse me,” a man’s voice said.

  I must have jumped. I had been so absorbed in my reading that I hadn’t noticed Jon Friesen enter the room. “Sorry, but you startled me.”

  “May I join you?” he asked. He directed the question to me, but he wasn’t looking at my face. Although he was still about eight paces away, his gaze didn’t leave the pages. Instinctively I covered them with my hand.

  “Or would you prefer—”

  “No, no, that’s fine,” I said. “In fact, why don’t we have a cup of coffee together?” I wanted to get his attention away from the manuscript. I stood up, turned over the pages, and laid my shoulder bag on top of them.

  “Please, allow me to get it for you,” he said.

  “Thanks. No sugar, no milk. Just coffee.”

  While he was gone, I put the pages into my shoulder bag. For now, no one except Captain Robert knew that Burton and I had found the manuscript. I wanted to keep that information secret just a little longer.

  After Jon handed me a cup, he sat across from me. He had chosen hot chocolate. He sipped the steaming beverage before he said, “That must have been absorbing reading.”

  I shrugged as if to minimize it.

  “But you seemed so engrossed and focused on—”

  “I get that way sometimes.”

  “I assume it’s only when something commands your attention.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” I said. This conversation was headed in the wrong direction, so I decided to take charge. “Were you looking for me? Or did you just happen to come by and see me here?”

  “No, I was looking for you.”

  “Oh, that makes me feel important. Why were you looking for me?”

  “I want to tell you that I’m sorry about the death of Twila. I knew you and she were good friends.” He was a tall man, thin and muscular. His face, set in strong lines, was impassive as he spoke. He wore expensive royal blue warm-up pants and a tight off-white polo shirt that made those muscular arms look even more prominent.

  “We were more than close friends.” I felt my voice begin to falter. Most of the time I was able to push aside my personal sense of loss, but in unexpected moments like this, the feelings overwhelmed me. I turned my face away from him and blinked several times. “I considered her my very, very special friend.”

  “I am sorry,” he said. He reached across the table and laid his hand on mine. “This must be a painful time for you.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “That’s what I usually say to people who hurt.”

  “Then perhaps we can reverse positions for now,” he said. He drew back his hand and got up, came around to my side of the table, and put his arm around my shoulder.

  “Please don’t,” I said. I pulled a tissue out of my bag and wiped my eyes.

  Jon sat down and stared at me. He said nothing, as if he expected me to continue.

  He won that one. A wave of grief overwhelmed me, and to avoid giving in to my tears, I began to talk. “She introduced herself to me the first time I visited the church.” I closed my eyes, and memories filled my mind. The pain was deep, much deeper than I had thought. I shook my head as if the gesture would shake away my grief. “We also became friends that day.”

  Jon still said nothing, so I talked
about the growing relationship between Twila and me. Occasionally Jon made a comment—usually a very professional one, such as “Ah, I see,” or “How did you feel?”

  After a few minutes, I stopped talking and stared at him. “Are you—or have you ever been—a professional therapist?”

  He shook his head. “No, but I’ve been to a few.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  His answer shocked me. First, he didn’t laugh or even smile at my quick retort. Almost anyone else would have caught the humor. Burton would have gotten it and given me a clever response. Oh, sometimes he ignored me, but I could always tell he got my meaning. I couldn’t read anything from Jon’s response.

  “Now it’s your turn,” I said. “You talk and I listen, nod, or say things like ‘Go on,’ or ‘Hmm.’ ”

  “I don’t have anything to say.”

  “You said you’ve been to a number of therapists.”

  “Yes, I did. Yes, I have.”

  I have had a few clients like Jon, and it often takes half an hour or longer to get them to start to talk. Once I get them to open up, they usually sense they can trust me. After that I sometimes have to interrupt them to get them to stop.

  I didn’t know Jon well. I think we met when he sat next to me in a Sunday school class. He had spoken at most five sentences to me in the months since we’d known each other. I decided to try again. Giving him my best smile and keeping my voice low and soft, I asked, “Did you know Twila well?”

  He shook his head. “Not well.”

  “Then why did she invite you as her guest?”

  “She was my therapist for a long time.”

  “For how long a time?”

  “Not too long.”

  “But she was no longer your therapist when you came on the cruise?”

  “Correct.”

  To give myself time to think of a fresh approach, I took a few sips of my now-warm coffee. I studied Jon. It seemed to me that almost everyone at church knew him, and the younger girls referred to him as a hunk or a hottie. He was a couple of inches above six feet, which I liked. His almost-blond hair had a circular part, and his almond-colored eyes showed intensity. He had an incredible bod, and his pecs bulged and rippled when he made the slightest move.

  The first time I saw him at church, I envisioned him behaving like a fourteen-year-old and expected him to flex his muscles and ask me to feel his arm. I had done that a few times—when I was thirteen.

  “How long is not long?”

  “A few months.”

  “How many months is a few? Two? Twelve?” That smart remark would have gotten a good response from Burton.

  Jon stared at me. He didn’t smile then, and I realized that I had only seen him smile once or twice before.

  “You said not long. How long was that?” I persisted.

  “Months. Less than a year. I don’t remember.”

  “So you weren’t close? I mean, she wasn’t what you’d call a friend?”

  “No.”

  “You weren’t her friend?” I’m sure the shock showed on my face. “Then what are you doing on this trip?”

  Seventeen

  “I am on this trip to see Antarctica,” Jon said. “Isn’t that the reason all of us came?”

  “But you came as a guest of Twila’s.”

  “Correct.”

  “You weren’t a current client and you weren’t a friend?”

  “True.”

  “That surprises me. I mean, she invited only friends and clients on this cruise. Or at least that’s what I thought—”

  “Perhaps she liked me.”

  “Perhaps.” I decided to play his little game.

  Silence filled the room except for faint noises coming from the galley area. A few pots clinked, and someone turned on a spigot. I was going to wait him out.

  “I would like to talk to you,” Jon said. He paused, lifted his hot chocolate to his mouth to finish it. But he did that muscle flexing at the same time. I suppose most women liked it.

  Yes, I liked it too. He was really quite strikingly handsome.

  “I’ve wanted to talk to you,” he said. “I’ve wanted to talk to you since I first saw you at church.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you never said anything.”

  “True.”

  This wasn’t getting anywhere, so I decided to try a few more words. “So why didn’t you talk to me?”

  “It was obvious that your attention was focused elsewhere.”

  “That obvious, was it?”

  “To me it was.” He tried to sip his hot chocolate again but realized it was gone. He put down his cup and pushed away from the table. “The past few weeks I—I haven’t seen you around much.”

  “You looked for me?”

  Those almond-colored eyes seemed intensely focused on me. “Every Sunday.”

  “Oh.”

  “So why haven’t I seen you?”

  “I wasn’t around much.” I love those smart-mouthed answers, and they irritate Burton. Or at least he tries to make me think they do.

  “Yes, I’m aware,” he said. “That’s why I mentioned it.”

  I stared at him for several seconds, and he stared back without blinking. I couldn’t figure out this man. I tried to remember what I knew about him, which wasn’t much. He was a day trader, and the gossip was that he had scored really big just before the dotcom bubble burst. I decided to try the question-and-answer technique.

  “You’re quite a handsome man. The word I heard is that you’re enormously wealthy.”

  “Yes.”

  “I also know you’re single,” I said, “and very attractive to the unattached women at church.”

  He shrugged as if to say it was of no importance.

  This man wasn’t going to give out information easily, not even when I flattered him. “Have you ever been married?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes? What does that mean?”

  “That I have not always been single.”

  In spite of myself, I laughed. His expression didn’t change. What kind of man is this? The outdoor lights shine brightly, but I’m not sure there’s anyone alive inside the building.

  “How many times have you not been single?” If he has any sense of humor, that one ought to get a response.

  “Three times.”

  “Oh, so I suppose you’re one of those men who will keep trying until you get it right.”

  “I will get it right this time if you will marry me.”

  “Whoa! That’s a bit fast,” I said. He continued to puzzle me. He was supposed to smile—or at least make an attempt at a smile.

  “I like you,” he said in a soft, low voice. “Do you like me?”

  “I’m not sure about a lot of my feelings right now.”

  “I’ll wait.” He stared at me as if he thought he could see inside my head.

  “Enough along that line, okay? I don’t want to get into anything romantic. Okay? My heart is heavy over the loss of my close friend.” Doesn’t the man ever blink?

  “Yes, it is sad.”

  When we finally were able to talk further—beyond a few syllables at a time—he said the right words. Maybe he was too correct. He reminded me of a few college classmates. We had studied the work of Carl Rogers, who founded the client-centered therapy movement. We learned clever responses such as “I hear you saying . . .” and we learned to feed people back what they told us in slightly different words. That showed we focused on them. We also learned to use one-word responses—much as Jon had done with me.

  The problem with most of those classmates is that they did this by rote. It was if they had been programmed to give the orthodox response. Most of them outgrew their allegiance to pat answers, but Jon sounded as if he were still in Psych 101 or at most 201.

  “Have you ever studied Carl Rogers?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Really?” />
  “Yes.”

  “Where did you learn all those phrases you used on me?”

  “I have been in therapy.”

  “Many times?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you seeing Twila up until the time of the cruise?”

  “Do you mean as a patient?”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “Because—”

  “Because I was no longer seeing her.”

  “Oh.” Just then I remembered something Twila had said to me when she first began to plan the cruise. “I want to invite the people I most love from the church,” she said. “I’ll also invite a few others—people who need me.”

  I’m not sure if I responded to that statement, although at the time it struck me as odd. But then, I was so fixated on James Burton, I wasn’t much interested in the rest of the people.

  “That reminds me: You became sick on Brown Bluff.”

  “No, I got sick before I went to the island.”

  “Minor point. You were sick, right?”

  “Correct. I had slept badly, my stomach was upset, and I was nauseated before I left. I almost vomited on the island, but I began to breathe very slowly because I didn’t want to barf on that pristine land. I told someone—and before you ask, I don’t know who it was—to tell Ivan that I was sick and would return on the third Zodiac. The people were climbing into it then to return.”

  That was the most he had spoken at one time. This came across as even stranger than his silence. The words sounded as if he had memorized a page of movie dialogue, and he spoke them like a third-rate actor.

  I thought again of the way he talked. I decided his words sounded as if he had memorized a script but had forgotten to add emotions.

  He didn’t frighten me, but I was confused by his presence. Was he one of the people who needed Twila? When I first began to work for Clayton County Special Services, I met a few people like him. They came across as emotional zombies. Sometimes it was the medication, such as powerful tranquilizers. Sometimes they just had a few unconnected wires inside their heads. None of them had ever been dangerous—as far as I knew—but they’re not the kind of people I’d like to invite for dinner.