Everybody Called Her a Saint

by Cecil Murphey

  “My wife touched places in me where I was vulnerable. Like we had no kids, and she always blamed me and said I wasn’t man enough. That made me angry—” He looked at me imploringly. “See what I mean?”

  “Go on.”

  “So one time I grabbed her by the throat. I probably would have killed her, but she kicked me, made me lose my grip, ran into the bedroom, and locked the door. She called the police.”

  “And what happened?”

  “It happened twice. Both times she broke away from me, but—”

  “But what?” Burton prompted.

  “But the second time was the problem. I stabbed her.”

  “It was an act of violence,” Burton said.

  “That’s why I’m sure I’ll be a suspect.”

  “Go back to your situation. Did the police arrest you?”

  Tears flooded his eyes. “They did. I mean, they did the second time.”

  “How were you charged?” I asked.

  “My wife—Verna is her name—but she doesn’t go to our church, which is one of our problems. That’s been a big issue since—”

  “I’m lost,” Burton said. “You lost me between the arrest and Verna.”

  “It was like this. I was in the kitchen. I did all the cooking. Verna could do it, but she has defective taste buds or something. She can’t even distinguish the difference between anise and oregano. I got tired of flavorless food and took over the cooking—”

  “We got that part,” I said. “What happened?”

  “I was cooking meat loaf—that’s my specialty—and ordinarily she didn’t say much, but this time she started complaining about my spending money for such a good cut of meat only to have it ground into hamburger. See what I mean? Defective taste buds. She couldn’t tell the difference!”

  “So what happened next?” I asked. It was going to take a long time to tell a short story.

  “I grabbed the butcher knife. I mean, I suppose I did.” He paused briefly and said, “No, no, that’s not accurate. I had finished chopping the carrots and the cucumbers for the salad. I like my cucumbers small, like—”

  “Did you stab her with the knife?”

  “I guess I did.”

  “You guess? You don’t know?”

  “You’re right. I do know.” Just as he said that, he stopped the nervous rubbing of his fingers. “I did it. I cut her arm. It wasn’t bad—just a nick. She grabbed a broom and fought me off. She jumped on me, scratched my face, and bit my fingers. I collapsed on the floor, and she called the police.” He went on to explain that the court-appointed attorney negotiated a plea bargain. He wouldn’t have to serve time if he agreed to see a therapist.

  “So they sent you to Twila?”

  “Oh no, no. You see, Verna wouldn’t agree to my spending money for someone as good as Twila.” He told us that he went to three different counseling centers and talked to two different pastors. “I didn’t go to you, Burton, because—well, I was too ashamed. Don’t feel offended—”

  “I’m not offended. So when did you go to Twila?”

  “When Verna realized that I wasn’t getting any better—I mean, I didn’t get violent, but she said the anger was still in my eyes—”

  “And then you went to see Twila?”

  “No. Verna went to see Twila and begged her to take me but for a lower fee. She agreed, and then I went to Twila.” In long, verbose statements he started to describe the counseling he had gotten from others. By the end of his second visit to Twila, she had given him an antidepressant. “I’m not on it now,” he said. “She wanted me to have it until I was better.”

  “Did Twila help you?”

  “Oh yes, yes, she certainly did. That woman is—was wonderful. She helped me see where my aggression came from. Do you want to hear about that part?”

  Burton shook his head. “Do you feel you’re healed?”

  “Twila wouldn’t say it that way. She said I’m stabilized. I guess I am. I haven’t had any violent episodes in more than two years.”

  “Sounds cured to me,” Burton said.

  “I feel I am, but Twila said—”

  “We understand,” I said.

  He told us in lengthy detail that he and his wife stayed together. Both of them taught at a school about fifteen miles south of Riverdale in Fayetteville. His wife didn’t like to travel and had turned down Twila’s invitation for the cruise.

  If he had been one of my clients, I would have let him talk, but I felt he had told us everything he could. Burton, ever the pastor, listened without interrupting.

  He said he now spoke to young people at some group called Anger Anonymous.

  “Oh yes!” I said. I realized I had read his case study, even though Twila had disguised it enough that most people wouldn’t have made the connection. To cover up, I asked, “Did you know that Twila prepared lectures of her case studies?”

  “Oh yes, yes, indeed.” He became animated. “And I’m one of the cases. She chose me as an example of someone who had been misdiagnosed by others. She showed me a list of about maybe twenty things people need to look for—”

  “You mean she showed you what she was going to teach?”

  “Sure she did. I signed a waiver too.”

  “A waiver?” Burton asked. “What kind of waiver?”

  “I gave her permission to tell my story. She said she didn’t want to use real names, and I understood. I said I’d be glad to come to any of her lectures and answer questions. I want to be open about this and to help—”

  “So you signed the—the waiver,” Burton said. “Just one copy?”

  “Oh no. Two. She kept one; I have one.”

  I had no questions. I wasn’t surprised that Twila had asked him to sign, but I was amazed at the delight he took in being a case study.

  Burton asked a number of questions, and Donny answered without hesitation. He had clearly relaxed.

  Donny told us that shortly before getting off the Zodiac, Twila whispered to him, “You’ve remained stable. I’m proud of you.”

  Something about that statement didn’t sound right. “Did she really say that to you? Those exact words?”

  The startled look in his eyes made me know I was correct. He hung his head. “No, I told her I was doing great and that I felt the Lord had given me strength to overcome my angry impulses. She said she could tell, and then she said she was proud of me. She didn’t say anything about my being stable.” He apologized for lying to us.

  He also said that he helped Twila get off the Zodiac. He took the life jacket from her and threw it on the ground next to his. He walked alone—which didn’t surprise me. He said he noticed nothing and didn’t realize that they were two people short on the return trip.

  He had nothing more to add.

  Twenty-Four

  The third person to come in was Pat Borders. I knew him slightly. I remembered that he wasn’t a member of the church but attended regularly. He was a moderately successful real estate broker in the area. He was tall, quite thin, with sandy hair that just missed being red. He always looked malnourished to me, as if he needed a dozen good meals to make him look healthy.

  “I’m surprised you came on the cruise,” Burton said to him. I think those words were as much for my benefit as for Pat’s.

  “Yeah, well, I wanted to come. You see, Antarctica is the one place I’ve always wanted to visit.” He explained that he was a world traveler, had been on all the other continents except this one. “This seemed like a good time to come.”

  “So Twila invited you for that reason?”

  “Oh no, I begged her. And I insisted on paying my own way. You know Twila. She didn’t like that, but I finally talked her into letting me come on the cruise.”

  He lied, and I couldn’t figure out the reason. He was one of those people who constantly talked about what a great salesman he was—maybe that was part of being successful in his field.

  “You paid your own way?” I asked.

  “Okay, I didn’
t.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “But I tried. I really tried.” He looked away and finally said, “All right, the truth is, she didn’t want me on this cruise. You know how I got on it? Only because Judson Knight broke his leg in a ski accident three weeks ago.”

  “So she already had the space filled and—” I asked.

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “Why didn’t she want you?”

  He shrugged.

  “Were you a patient of Twila’s?” Burton asked.

  “Why would you think that?”

  I smiled. “That’s a good evasion.” I decided to flatter his ego. “Very good answer, Pat.”

  He smiled in return.

  “So were you a patient?”

  “Yeah. Well, I had been. I wasn’t currently a patient.”

  “You felt you were cured?” Burton asked, and his eyes told me he knew the answer.

  Pat shrugged a second time and looked away.

  I became aware of the waves lashing against the ship. The rough waters had increased.

  “No.”

  “Tell us about your situation.”

  “You can check her records when you get back. I was a patient for about three years.” He held up his hands. “Okay, I play around with drugs, but I’m not an addict.”

  “But you use?”

  “Sometimes. Yeah, now and then.”

  “Did Twila say you were an addict?”

  “Oh yeah, sure, but she’s a shrink—you know, that’s how they’re supposed to talk.”

  I smiled. “I’m a shrink.”

  “Yeah, but you’re different, you know. You don’t keep trying to make me say things like ‘Hi, my name is Pat, and I’m an addict.’ ”

  “Oh, so you mean you use, but—”

  “I don’t like being called an addict. It sounds demeaning, you know.” He went on to say that he liked to consider himself an occasional user. “Or you can call me a recreational user.”

  He told us that he saw no cure for himself, and Twila had reluctantly stopped treating him.

  “That’s surprisingly insightful,” I said. “Most ad—most users—aren’t able to see that about themselves.”

  He shrugged and smiled. “Twila said I was bright.”

  “I’m sure you are.”

  “See, it’s like this,” Pat said. “I can go a full month without a fix—one time I went three months, and that was after I was with Twila. But something happens, and I do it again.”

  “What do you think happens?” I asked.

  Pat shrugged.

  “Why don’t you tell me?” I said. “I’d like to understand.”

  “Whatever it takes for me to need to chill.” He leaned forward as if he wanted to plead his case. “See, it’s like this. I have this highly, highly intense job—”

  “Real estate,” I said. “I know, and I understand you’re good at it.”

  “I’m the best. That’s part of the problem. I am good. Last year my gross income was great—”

  “But—”

  “But doubts creep in, and I keep hearing myself ask, ‘Can I reach that income level again? How do I keep this up?’ then after a while—”

  “You turn to drugs.”

  “Yeah, and I can’t kick them.”

  “Do you want to?” I asked.

  He stared at me for a long time before he shook his head. “Not really. That’s why Twila wouldn’t see me again.”

  “Did you like Twila?”

  He hesitated even longer before he said, “I detested her.”

  Twenty-Five

  “Twila said she could cure me! She promised me that I would be free, and she couldn’t do that! She failed me!” Pat slammed his fist on the table. “She failed me.”

  “No good therapist would ever say that,” I said. I moved closer so that my face was less than six inches from his. I could smell the coffee on his breath.

  He blinked several times as if shocked that I would challenge his statement. “Well, not in so many words, but that’s what she meant!”

  “Really?”

  “Okay, I thought she’d cure me. I—well, I want to lose the desire to—to, you know, to use. She couldn’t cure me.”

  “So you hated her for that?”

  “No, not for that.”

  “Not for that,” I said. “But you did hate her.”

  “I didn’t mean—no, I—”

  “You hated her,” Burton said in that calm voice again. “Just tell us why.”

  “She was so—so sanctimonious.” He swore, cursed her name, and added, “She acted as if she was better than anybody else.”

  “You mean better than you?” Burton said.

  “Okay, better than me. I detested her. Whenever she opened her mouth, it was always to talk about God. I hate God! I hated Twila!” He stood and lunged for Burton.

  I grabbed his arm. He was strong, but I was able to hold him back.

  Burton didn’t flinch. He waited several seconds and grabbed Pat’s throat. “Calm down. I’ll release the pressure when you relax your body.”

  “What medication are you on?” I asked.

  “Just a little something to raise my serotonin level, I think.”

  “Specifically?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. See, I threw a couple of handsful of, you know, prescription drugs into a vitamin bottle and brought it on the trip.”

  “So you don’t know what you’re taking?” I asked.

  “No, and I’m sorry. Truly I’m sorry for what’s happened to Twila. I hated her, but I didn’t want to kill her.”

  He seemed genuinely contrite. I released his arm and sat down.

  “Sorry. Most of the time it works all right for me, but sometimes I get a little—well, bizarre. Instead of chilling, I get so angry I can’t control myself.”

  Burton released his hold, and Pat sat still. Perspiration broke out on his forehead. “She wouldn’t give me anything yesterday. I asked her, but she said she had nothing with her.”

  “And you searched her room?”

  “I would have if I’d thought of it.”

  “One more question I have,” I said. “Did you know she was going to use your case in a series of lectures?”

  “Sure, I knew. That’s how I persuaded her to let me come. I said I’d tear up my agreement.” He smiled at me. “She made me sign a waiver.”

  “You read the piece about yourself.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Yeah, sure. It wasn’t very good—she made me look like a loser—but yeah, I signed.”

  “If I take you to the ship’s doctor and ask him to give you a tranquilizer, would that help?” I didn’t know if the doctor had anything, but it was worth trying.

  “I’d like that,” he said.

  I took Pat to the ship’s doctor, who not only gave him a shot of Valium but said he’d keep him in the bed in what he called the sick bay. “He can stay here until we land in Ushuaia.”

  I thanked him and went back to the theater. Burton had already brought in Betty Freeman, the next person on our list.

  She was leaning across the table and staring into his eyes when I walked in. She glanced around and saw me but ignored me. “You know, Burton, I think you have the most beautiful blue eyes I’ve ever seen.”

  “God gave them to me.”

  Betty laughed. “That was very good. And that dark, curly hair.” She reached over and touched his curls. “So soft. Not like most men. I have a little natural curl, but nothing like what you have. Whenever I see you behind the pulpit, I want to go up there and run my hands through your hair.”

  Burton smiled. “God gave me the hair as well.”

  “If we’re through with the eyes and hair,” I said, “Betty, we need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Anything. Oh, anything, of course.”

  We talked to her for perhaps seven or eight minutes. We learned nothing new. She had been on the fourth Zodiac. She didn’t pay any at
tention to Twila. “Going over, I had a nice—really nice—conversation with Jon Friesen. He was complaining about not feeling well, but he was still nice to me. He’s such a gentleman, you know. He lost his wife a few years ago, and he’s so lonely—”

  “Oh, right,” I said.

  “Did you talk to anyone else?” Burton hurriedly asked.

  She couldn’t remember. She didn’t think so. She said she walked beside Donny and was with him most of the time.

  “Most of the time?”

  “Well, yes, except at one point—and I don’t know where it was—he said he wanted to be alone, so I joined a group and walked around the gentoo penguins. I never get tired of looking at them. And there were two seals—”

  “And you didn’t talk to Donny again?”

  “I did on the boat going back to the ship. Or I tried. He turned away from me and didn’t say a word.” She smiled before she said, “He did help me wash my boots.”

  I didn’t think we would glean much more information from her. I made a note about Donny leaving her.

  “Were you a patient of Twila’s?” Burton asked.

  “Client. She called us clients.”

  “Were you a client?” Burton asked.

  She nodded.

  “Do you mind telling us why she treated you?”

  Betty told us a sad story about repeated sexual assault from her stepfather. She said she thought she had dealt with her issues, but her first husband beat her and she left him. Her second husband was an alcoholic, and she divorced him. “All of that happened before my twenty-fourth birthday. I haven’t been in any serious relationship since then. That was five years ago. I’m twenty-nine now—”

  “Did you know Twila used you as a case study?” Burton asked. “I read the account—even though she changed your name and cleverly disguised your identity.”

  “Of course I knew that,” Betty said. “I never would have signed the waiver without reading it first.”

  After Betty left, Burton shook his head. “Sad, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but what about Borders? Do you think he’s capable?”

  “Capable, yes. But—”

  “But he seems erratic. He acts on the passion of the moment.”

  “That’s my guess,” he said. “Twila’s murder may have been an act of passion, but—”