Everybody Called Her a Saint

by Cecil Murphey

  Frank was probably in his late sixties, or maybe he was just one of those people who looks old at thirty. He had thick brown hair going white at the temples, but it was the wrinkled skin that made him look old. He had clear brown eyes, a long aristocratic nose, and generally handsome features. His salt-and-pepper mustache was large but well kept.

  By contrast, I guessed Shirley to be at least twenty years younger. Frank was about my height, but she was small, about five two and perhaps slightly over a hundred pounds. She had the same brown hair without the streaks of white. She had delicate features, blue eyes that seemed to whisper gentleness. Her slender shoulders, thin wrists, long-fingered hands, and tiny waist gave the impression of fragility.

  She seemed to be quiet in a way that could easily be called timidity, and perhaps it was. Her voice was soft, and it was easy to see why people paid little attention to her. Maybe there was nothing much to pay attention to. She wore a soft mauve wool jacket and matching slacks with a creamy white blouse that had a simple plum-colored bow at the throat.

  I liked her softness and the way she looked directly at me when she spoke. “Were both of you together the whole time after you landed at Brown Bluff?” I asked.

  “Of course we were,” Shirley said. She leaned forward and said, “Frank retired this year.” She mouthed the word dementia. “He’s grown quite forgetful in recent days, so I spend more time with him.” She said that after their return, Frank would spend each weekday at a senior adult day-care group.

  Frank smiled if I looked at him, but most of the time he said nothing. I don’t know much about dementia, but I could see the deadness already starting to take over his eyes and his facial muscles. I revised my opinion of his age. His was probably closer to hers.

  “Were either of you patients of Twila’s?” Burton asked.

  “As a matter of fact—I don’t like saying that. It’s such a cliché, isn’t it? But yes, Frank was her patient for several years.”

  “What diagnosis? I mean, before—before his present condition?”

  “Oh, he’s schizophrenic. I keep him on his medication, and he functions fairly well. The problem, you see, is that after a few years, he has to change medication. That’s where the stress comes in. He gets—well, let’s say confused. When that happens, we have to change the medication. Twila was convinced that he built up an immunity to them. I believe she was correct.”

  Shirley offered to write a list of the medications Frank had taken, but Burton and I assured her it wasn’t necessary.

  “Frank never left you the whole time?”

  “I couldn’t let him walk alone. He wants to pick up the penguins and pet them. He kneels down and tries to talk to them, and I have to remind him that he can’t do that.”

  “Did you notice anything strange on the trip?”

  “No . . . I don’t think so. . . .”

  “You hesitated,” I said.

  “Strange isn’t exactly the word. Just something small—probably not worth mentioning.”

  “Try us,” Burton said.

  “Well, one thing that I thought was odd. I mean, it struck me as a bit peculiar.”

  “What was that?” This might take all night—and she might not have anything to say.

  “I saw someone taking pictures—one of those digital cameras—”

  “And that was odd because—”

  “I wondered what the person was photographing. I mean, there was nothing really. Two members of our group in the blue suits walking all alone. Maybe it was for perspective or something. I don’t mean to—well, I used to do a lot of picture taking when Frank and I traveled. I had the distinct feeling—”

  “Go on,” I said. I hoped I wouldn’t have to beg her for every sentence.

  “It just struck me as plain odd. It was as if the person followed the couple and seemed more interested in taking pictures of them—and she was maybe fifty feet behind them. I say she, but I couldn’t swear it was a woman. But wouldn’t that strike you as odd?”

  “Did the two people turn around and wave or anything?”

  “Probably not—oh, I don’t know, but they seemed, well, they seemed unaware. That’s part of what struck me as odd. I’m sure the person with the camera didn’t yell at them. You know, if they were going to pose, they would have stopped or something. But I doubt if they knew—”

  “Can you tell us anything about the two people?”

  “They both wore blue.” She laughed. “That wasn’t much of a joke, was it?” She closed her eyes as if to visualize the scene. “I didn’t pay that much attention. One was taller—oh, again, I suppose that’s obvious. I mean, one of them would almost have to be taller than the—”

  “Did either of them have on a life jacket?”

  “Oh, the taller one.” She thought for a minute. “Definitely the taller. And I assume it was a man—”

  “Because he was taller.”

  “Well, yes, I suppose, but it wasn’t that. He took the other person’s arm—I’m not sure how to say it, but it was, uh, well, more like the gesture of a man than a woman.” She leaned forward and said, “I write cozy mysteries, and I’m always observing the way people move.”

  “She’s published two books,” Burton said. “She’s a gentle soul, but she likes to kill people in print.”

  “Oh yes, I use a pen name, too. My pen name is Mary LaMuth. I don’t know if you’ve read—”

  “That’s very interesting.” I don’t read cozy mysteries, and neither do any of my friends, so her achievements meant nothing to me. “Back to the couple. Anything else you can tell us?”

  “They seemed to want to get away from everyone else. Maybe that’s obvious. Maybe it’s just the mind of Mary LaMuth working, but I had the impression—it’s only an impression, mind you—I had the impression that when he took her arm—and I assume it was a man—he was, well, not forcing her, exactly . . . urging, perhaps?”

  “Anything else you can tell us?”

  “Not really. My curiosity was piqued—after all, I am a writer, you know—and I probably would have watched or even followed the photographer. Just curiosity.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Frank had gotten ahead of me. He spotted the penguins and started calling to them as if they were chickens. And I have to watch him carefully.”

  “Just two more questions,” I said, and already I knew the answer to the first. “Did Twila plan to use Frank as one of her case studies?”

  “Oh yes. He signed the waiver or permission slip—whatever she called it. And just to be sure, I insisted on signing as a witness. You know, when he gets worse—and he will—he has—he is—I mean—”

  “The other question. Can you tell us anything about who was taking the pictures?”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t. As I said, I had the distinct impression that it was a woman, but I can’t recall why. There was something about her. . . .” She drifted into silence for several seconds. She shook her head slowly. “I know there was something about her, but it’s just not coming to me right now.”

  She promised she would let us know if she remembered.

  As soon as she was out of the room, Burton and I stared at each other. “Who took the pictures?” he asked.

  “Would the pictures tell us something?”

  Twenty-Nine

  “I did not kill Twila Belk!”

  I looked up.

  Heather slammed the door behind her. “Don’t keep making everyone think I did it.”

  “What are you ranting about?”

  “Ranting? Okay, call it what you want, but I’m angry—absolutely angry!” Her thick dark hair was parted in the middle and hung loose. She had looked beautiful before, but now she reminded me of an actress from the 1930s named Hedy Lamarr.

  She slammed her purse on the table and sat down. “So let’s get this clear right now. You’ve already questioned me once. All right? But ask whatever you want and let’s get this over.”

  “Who thinks you kille
d Twila?”

  “Everybody—well, I mean, several people.”

  “Why would they think that?”

  “Because—because I got mad and said some stupid things to her, and several people heard me. That’s why.”

  “What stupid things?” I asked before Burton could open his mouth. I’m quicker at things like that, and I love it when I jump in ahead of him. It also makes me feel bright.

  “The day before, you know, before she died, I—well, I said some things.”

  “What?” I asked with an emphasis in my voice. “You might as well tell us. Or would you prefer we ask everyone else?”

  “Oh no, no, please don’t.” Heather pulled a tissue from her purse and carefully wiped her eyes. She pulled out her compact and stared at herself in the mirror, brushing back a strand of raven-colored hair.

  “Twila has, well, been after me for a while about something. I got tired of it.”

  “What did she bug you about?” Burton asked. He smiled, and I knew he jumped into the conversation to get ahead of me on that one.

  “Okay, I smoke. Not a lot—”

  “And—” Burton prompted.

  “She said the cigarettes affected my health.” Heather looked away. “She’s also a medical doctor, you know. Well, before she takes a patient, she insists they get a physical—anyplace—and have the doctor send the results to her.”

  “And—” From the corner of my eye, I saw Burton’s thumbs-up for pursuing that line. Heather didn’t see it.

  “Emphysema. I mean, I showed the first signs of it.” She sighed. “It concerned her because, well, because I’m so young, you see.”

  Not that young. I didn’t say the words out loud. I would have been willing to bet anyone that plastic surgery had kept that beautiful face beautiful at least ten years longer than it deserved. Or maybe I was still jealous.

  “And she wanted you to quit smoking.”

  “She did. Like it was her own body. She was after me every time she caught me smoking.”

  “And—” I said again and winked at Burton.

  “Okay, the day before. Right after we came back from our first landing—”

  “King George Island,” I said.

  “Whatever. Whatever.” She waved away my words as if they didn’t matter. “I stopped for a cigarette on the deck. She came by. And you know how she is—”

  “Suppose you tell me,” I said in that soft, professional voice. I love it when I can practice all those phrases I learned in grad school.

  “She cared about me. Yes, I know that, but I still resent it when people say and do things for my good. I know that she cared about my well-being. She didn’t want me to ruin my health, and I know that. She loved me—okay, I got that message as well.”

  “And the problem was?”

  “I resented it. Maybe I shouldn’t have, but I did. I mean, I know the cigarettes may eventually kill me. Who doesn’t know that? I didn’t need her to—”

  “Or did you feel guilty?” Burton asked. His voice soft and comforting.

  Heather stared at him for a few seconds and nodded. “Yes, of course, I felt guilty, so I attacked. I was angry at her, and I yelled at her and told her to mind her own business. And she said I was really angry at myself.”

  “Was she correct?” I asked. “Were you?”

  “Yes. And that made me even angrier. I have tried to quit. Eight times I’ve tried during the past three months. Honest, I’ve tried and—and I am going to get free. I mean, as soon as we get back—”

  “So what did Twila say?”

  “She saw me smoking and looked at me. Just that. Just a look. If she’d said something, I might have gotten really, really mad—”

  “So if she didn’t say anything,” I asked, “why were you upset?”

  “Because she didn’t say anything, that’s why!” She looked around to make sure both of us got it. We nodded, and she said nothing. “So I yelled at her. I told her that if she didn’t stay out of my personal life, I’d make her sorry.”

  “What did you mean by ‘make her sorry’?” Burton asked.

  “How should I know? I was upset. I didn’t know she was coming up behind me, or I would have waited until she was gone before I lit up.”

  “And other people heard you? Is that the problem?” I asked.

  “Yes, and they whisper among themselves.”

  “What do they say?”

  “It’s not so much what they say. It’s—well, it’s the way they look at me. I can tell what they’re saying behind my back. I just know.”

  “You know because—”

  “Because they act odd. They act extremely innocent as if they haven’t said anything, but I know they’ve been talking about me.” She brushed back her dark hair with her right hand. “Oh, I wish I had a cigarette now. It would calm my nerves.”

  She obviously showed signs of paranoia, but I waited to see if she had anything else to tell us.

  “As a patient of Twila’s, did you know she was going to use you as a case study?”

  She sighed deeply. “We’ve been through this before, but okay, yes, I knew. Why wouldn’t I know that?” I heard the anger in her voice.

  “And you signed the consent form, didn’t you?”

  “No, I did not—not right then.”

  “Why?”

  “She didn’t think I was—well, curable. That’s not the word she used, but that’s what she meant.”

  “So that was the end?”

  She shook her head, took out her compact, and carefully applied lipstick—which she didn’t need—to those already bright red lips. “No, she disguised my identity and said no one could ever recognize me.”

  “Did you object then?”

  “No, but after I signed, I decided not to see her again.” Before either of us asked, she told us she had been a patient for a few months. Her company refused to keep paying, so Twila took her at five dollars a visit. She said she had been raped as a teenager. “Twila never believed that. She always thought I made it up.”

  I wanted to ask, “Did you make it up?” but I restrained myself and got a nice smile from Burton.

  She started to ramble about her treatments, and I was ready to cut her off until she said something about being involved with Jon Friesen.

  “Really?” I asked.

  “Oh yes. We had appointments right after each other. Every Tuesday and Thursday I came out of Twila’s office at ten minutes to five. Twila always liked to have ten minutes between appointments to compose herself before the next client. Jon followed me at six. Almost every time when I came out, he was there, waiting for me, and we talked until she called him into her office.”

  “And what about you and Jon? Do you have a good relationship?” As I asked the question, I thought about his heavy-handed come-on to me.

  “Oh, now, and that’s—well, that’s probably the reason I was really ticked off at Twila.”

  “You lost me there,” Burton said.

  “Well, Jon and I became, uh, I mean, intimate.” She smiled demurely. “We fell in love. We were going to get married in April. But he broke it off. He broke it off, but she put him up to it.”

  “How did she do that?” That’s another question I learned in grad school.

  “She told him I wasn’t healthy enough for a mature relationship.”

  “Did she say that to you?” I asked. Such a statement didn’t seem like anything Twila would say.

  “Well, naturally, not to me. She wouldn’t dare.”

  “What did she say?”

  “I mean, she didn’t say it in those words, but I knew what she meant. And then—can you believe this—she said I should tell him, tell Jon. Can you believe that? I was supposed to tell him that I was too messed up in my head.”

  “And naturally you resisted?” Burton used exactly the right tone, and she almost purred. “Did you?”

  She shook her head. “Three days before we came on the cruise—three lousy days—he broke up with me. He jus
t said we didn’t have a healthy relationship. Now he won’t talk to me—I mean, alone. When there are other people around—you know, like in the dining room—he’s okay. But even then, sometimes he moves to the other side of the room when I come near him. No, I know what happened. Twila! She told him to break up with me because I’m—well, I’m emotionally delicate.”

  “Emotionally delicate?”

  “So you honestly think Twila told him?” Burton jumped in with that soft tone.

  “How else would Jon have found out?”

  “You were a patient,” Burton said.

  “Client. Did you know she liked to call us clients?”

  “Yes, he knows,” I said, “but he forgets.”

  “So you hated Twila for that?” Burton asked.

  “Hated her? I told her that if I owned a gun, I would shoot her fifty times.”

  “Did you stab her once?” I asked.

  “Look, Twila may have thought I was on the wrong side of normal—and sometimes she might have been right—I don’t know. But look at her files when you get back. I’m not violent. I yell and get mad, but my violence comes out in words.”

  “Oh?” That’s always a safe word to use.

  “If I were going to kill someone, I’d probably kill Jon!”

  Thirty

  “I’m not clear on something,” I said to Heather. “If Jon avoided you, how was it that you were on the Zodiac together?”

  She smiled brightly. “Oh, that. Well, you see, when we prepared to land at Brown Bluff, I stood aside so no one paid any attention to me. I was there when the first Zodiac went out.”

  “And you waited for him to get into the fourth Zodiac?”

  “At first I wondered if he had decided not to. Twila was the tenth person, and he was right behind her. So I took the last spot.”

  “Did you and Jon talk?”

  “I tried. He turned his back on me.”

  “Did you talk to him at any time on the Zodiac or after you landed?”

  “No, of course not. I decided to wipe that jerk out of my life—you know, Jon.”

  “So you didn’t see Jon or Twila after the wet landing?”

  “No, I don’t know who got off first or last, and I didn’t care. I didn’t want to have anything to do with him again. Or with her either.”