A Hive of Homicides

by Meera Lester

  * * *

  Midweek Abby walked into Dr. Olivia Crawford’s waiting room at half past two for her appointment. Hanging her denim sweater jacket on the coatrack, Abby felt her phone vibrate in her jeans pocket. After sliding into an armchair by a small table with a lamp and a green-leaf orchid on it, Abby took out her phone and peeked at Kat’s text. It contained an apology. She couldn’t make their Thanksgiving dinner at the farmette because she had to work the murder case with the guys.

  Abby texted back. No problem. Solve the case. We’ll meet up at the Black Witch and order something with Wild Turkey in it.

  “So glad to see you, Abby.”

  Abby looked up to see Olivia closing the door behind the patient who’d just left.

  “Come this way, please.”

  Abby turned her cell on vibrate and dropped it into her daypack. She followed Olivia into the inner chamber. The clean scent of lemon and cedar permeated the room. A massive French fruitwood bookcase with glass windows revealing rows of neatly arranged books dominated one wall of the room. A narrow rectory table had been positioned in front of the bookcase. It held a crystal vase of silk peonies and roses. Alongside lay a coffee-table book about Edwardian tea service pieces and another about ancient Scottish clans.

  Appreciating the aesthetic of the room, Abby quickly grasped that she and Olivia shared similar tastes. This gorgeous room was the kind she could only dream of creating in her farmhouse. After dropping her daypack onto the ivory and gray accent rug that covered the wall-to-wall Berber carpet, Abby took a seat on the sofa.

  “You know, Abby, I’ve been thinking about you,” said Olivia as she pulled open the rectory table drawer and took out a clipboard with forms attached. “Tell me how you’ve been doing since the pie shop episode.” The psychologist sank into a high-back armchair. Her tone imparted genuine concern.

  Abby grunted softly. “To say I’m still under siege would be putting it mildly. But when you said some treatments could help, it gave me hope.”

  “I have some ideas about ways you might manage your symptoms, Abby, but we’re getting ahead of ourselves. First, there are some forms I’d like you to read and sign, authorizing me to treat you. Then I’d like very much to hear what you desire to get out of the therapy sessions and for us to explore together not only your symptoms but also what led up to them. Why don’t you start on the forms? I’ll just get something I would like to read to you before we go too much further. Would that be okay?”

  Abby relaxed into the curves of the couch and read through the consent form and a questionnaire about her general health. With the pencil attached to the clipboard, she wrote her signature in the blanks provided, and then she handed the clipboard back. Olivia turned to a section in a book she’d retrieved from her bookcase and read aloud two definitions—one for panic attacks and the other for post-traumatic stress disorder. Abby felt her brow furrow. Sounds like what I’ve got.

  Listening to the gentle modulations of Olivia’s voice explaining the similarities and differences between the two and how a shocking or traumatic event served as the trigger in both, Abby felt reassured that she’d made the right decision in consulting with Lucas’s sister. In Olivia, she sensed integrity, honesty, and compassion. Here was someone who didn’t talk down to her and who clearly understood that for Abby, labeling the problem, outlining solutions, and building trust between them was paramount.

  Abby decided to address her most pressing concern. “I repeatedly have disturbing memories of the night of the murder. I’m constantly reminding myself to let the police investigators do their jobs. But then my police training kicks in. I obsess about connecting the dots between the homicide and what I don’t and do remember. The physical symptoms are awful.”

  “Like what, Abby?”

  “I feel startled and jumpy. My heart races. I’m apprehensive and worry a lot.”

  Olivia leaned slightly toward her in an actively listening pose and nodded her head from time to time to indicate she understood. “You know, Abby, during a traumatic event, fear generates split-second changes in the body and brain. These are normal, natural responses for protecting or removing the body from danger.”

  “Are they panic attacks, or do I have PTSD?”

  “So, let’s take some time to talk about that.” Olivia outlined the four criteria necessary for a diagnosis of PTSD in an adult. She emphasized that a patient had to have experienced all the symptoms for at least one month.

  Abby had been symptomatic for only three weeks and now found cause to feel optimistic. “The fact that it hasn’t been a month yet and that we’re treating this early . . . Are the chances good I could move past this?”

  Olivia’s features relaxed. “I think so.”

  “There’s something else,” said Abby. “There are details from the night of the murder that have me perplexed. I second-guess myself as to whether or not I really saw what I think I saw. Can you help me with that, too?”

  Olivia tilted her head slightly. “Possibly.” She placed the book and the clipboard on the rectory table and returned to her seat in the wingback chair. “We have tools. Medication and modalities, such as talk therapy, EMDR, hypnosis. Have you ever been hypnotized, Abby?”

  “No,” Abby replied. “I’m not sure it would work with me. You have to give over your power. I couldn’t. Or wouldn’t.”

  “I see. And what about EMDR?”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “Eye movement desensitization and reprocessing,” explained Olivia. “It’s a nontraditional but controversial reconstructive modality for treating trauma. I’ve found it to be an effective therapy for cases like yours.” She pushed a tangle of amber-honey hair away from her face and took her time explaining further.

  “In theory, Abby, the modality uses your rapid eye movements to tamp down the emotionally charged power of your memories of the traumatic event. The effect is to desensitize you to the memory. You will always remember the traumatic event but with therapy come to view it as though it was an article in an old newspaper clipping.”

  “Meaning no physical responses like what I now have?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Will it work fast?”

  “Depends on you. The therapy will allow you to create a new mental relationship between the memories you associate with the trauma and a healthier way of looking at it. But, Abby, we’ll proceed at whatever speed you feel most comfortable with.”

  Feeling nervous energy bound up in her hands and legs, Abby uncrossed her legs and folded her hands in her lap.

  “We can start the EMDR today if you like. The way it will work is this. You’ll hold the memory of the trauma in your mind, taking note of the details of what you saw and heard, as well as your emotions and bodily sensations. You don’t have to tell me or anyone else what happened. As I instruct you, your eyes will follow my moving fingers, which I will hold in front of your face. Like when you read a book, your own rhythmic, rapid eye movement will enable your mind to remember the event and your thoughts to process whatever wasn’t processed during the trauma. A moment or two later, I’ll guide you to think about something pleasant. And then I’ll ask you to rate your level of distress. Our aim will be to reduce those stress levels.”

  Not relishing the thought of having to relive the dark emotional potency of that night all over again, Abby felt her heart beginning to tick faster. I’m here to deal with this and to end this misery. It has to be done. If not now, when?

  Olivia waited for a sign from Abby that she had considered all the options and was ready to begin. “Take your time.”

  Abby moistened her lips against her dry mouth. Medication, hypnosis, talk therapy, or the controversial EMDR? She didn’t want to be doped up on pills. Hypnosis was definitely a no. Talk therapy . . . she’d had plenty of that in the past, when she had served on the force and following protocol meant seeing the police shrink for particularly gruesome scenes. The new modality EMDR sounded like New Age quackery—eyes moving bac
k and forth like when reading a book. Seriously? But if it worked, did it matter?

  She stared at Olivia’s rose cashmere sweater and matching pants with a ribbed cuff at the ankle—a feminine look that would have been enthusiastically embraced by Kat and Paola. Unsure of how she’d expected a professional doctor of psychology to dress, Abby felt that Olivia’s sweater suit on such a chilly day and her ballerina flats, well worn but in good repair, suggested she was a pragmatist. She wore no jewelry or symbols of some driving ideology or religious belief. All good. So, make up your mind, already. You can always leave if it gets too weird.

  In what sounded more like a suffocated whisper than a full-throttled declaration, Abby heard herself say, “Let’s try the EMDR.” If she had to think about wandering around in the dark and discovering the bodies again, at least she’d have Olivia with her. And they’d be right here in a safe, secure environment. It was time to get beyond the craziness that was claiming her life.

  “Would you like a glass of water before we start?” Olivia asked. “Patients are often nervous during the first session. A little water helps with the dry mouth.”

  Remembering the bottled water she always carried in her daypack, Abby said, “No thanks. Let’s just get this over with.”

  “Good. I suggest you drink plenty of water and sleep as long as you need to after we’ve finished our session today.” Olivia smiled reassuringly. “The body can get so tense and hold so much stress that when it releases it, a person can feel like a wrung-out washcloth. And let’s face it. You’ve held tremendous stress in your body for weeks. Letting it go will feel liberating. Now, tell me, do you have anyone who could drive you home or stay with you tonight?”

  “No. I’ll be fine.”

  “Shall I ask a neighbor or perhaps Lucas to look in on you?”

  “No, no. Please don’t,” Abby said, a little too emphatically. She added, “I don’t want him to know about this. You can’t tell him.” She drilled Olivia with a stare.

  “Of course not. It would violate doctor-patient confidentiality. You needn’t worry about that, Abby.” Olivia leaned far forward, as if to emphasize her next word.

  “Ever.”

  Reassured, Abby settled back into the soft cushions of the couch.

  “Ready?” Olivia asked, still leaning in.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” said Abby.

  “Rate your level of anxiety, Abby. On a scale of zero to ten, with ten being a high level of distress and zero being no distress, how would you rate the way you feel now?”

  “I guess maybe ten.”

  “Where in your body do you feel the most distress?” Olivia asked.

  “I’m trembling inside. My heart is racing. I feel shaky.”

  Olivia gestured toward a blanket throw on the couch. “Use that if you feel cold. Now, I want you to relax by taking a few deep breaths.” Olivia flashed a reassuring smile. “As you can see, I’m holding up my forefinger about twelve inches from your nose. I want you to see it clearly—not too close or too far. So, is this a good spot?”

  Abby nodded. Already, this seemed a little weird, but then again, what did it matter if Olivia’s technique worked?

  Olivia traced an invisible horizontal line in the air from the center position in front of Abby’s nose to the left side. Then she moved her finger back to center and followed the line the same distance in the other direction. “Keep your eyes on my finger,” she said.

  Abby focused and followed as instructed—back and forth, back and forth. She soon realized that with each invisible line tracing, Olivia’s finger was dropping a smidgen lower.

  “Close your eyes.”

  Abby didn’t need the command. Her lids were all the way down.

  “You are safe. Nothing is going to happen that you don’t want to happen.” Olivia fell silent, perhaps to allow time for Abby to feel reassured. “Now, when you are ready, I want you to go back to the night of the trauma.”

  Olivia’s soothing, soft tone did little to assuage Abby’s anxiety. With her head resting on the sofa pillow, Abby sank a little deeper into the cushions and tried to breathe more slowly.

  “Now, I want you to focus on the trauma. We’ll do this in short bursts of fifteen or thirty seconds. What do you feel? Abby, what do you smell? Where is the light? Or are you in total darkness? What do you see as you look around? Notice the details.” Olivia’s voice sounded as soft as a dove’s cooing.

  In her mind’s eye, Abby stood alone in the dark parking lot. The fog wafted past her in heavy, wet sheets. She heard the shot. Flinched. Then, as if in slow motion, the memories flooded in. A figure ran uphill. A car engine turned over. Headlights beamed on her. The car sped away. The imagery shifted to Jake . . . and then Paola. The event in all its minutiae played out in her mind. Abby shifted slightly on the couch and slowly opened her eyes to look at Olivia. The therapist was staring intently at her.

  “How’s the anxiety now, Abby, on a scale of one to ten, with ten as the highest and one as the lowest?”

  “Seven, maybe,” Abby said.

  Olivia smiled. “That’s a good start, Abby. There are several phases to this modality, and in between treatments, you’ll need some coping mechanisms that you can use to calm yourself. We’ll talk about those next. Of course, we’ll keep working to lower your anxiety and reduce your symptoms. Sound good?”

  Abby felt more relaxed than she’d felt in weeks. “Absolutely wonderful.”

  Wild Turkey Trivia

  If Benjamin Franklin had gotten his way, the wild turkey, not the bald eagle, would be America’s national bird. The wild turkey, with its dramatic iridescent feathers, is a popular game bird and is hunted throughout North America. This bird finds suitable habitat in forests, swamps, and grasslands. Wild turkeys eat seeds, snails, insects, nuts, berries, and even small snakes. Like the peacock impressing the peahen, the tom turkey will fan out his tail and strut about to attract the female turkey’s attention. He’s the one that gobbles; female turkeys cluck. The latter lays pale tan eggs with dark speckles that are twice the size of a chicken’s eggs and have yolks of a golden-orange color.

  Chapter 12

  Healing the maladies of our gardens heals us in

  the process.

  —Henny Penny Farmette Almanac

  After the therapy session with Olivia, Abby returned to her farmette and struggled against fatigue to do a few chores. The last one was applying a dormant spray to control the overwintering peach leaf curl that made her peach trees sick in the spring. Later, after a warm shower and a small meal, she dressed in pajamas and bed socks and crawled under a down comforter. Her head rested on a lavender-scented pillow. Her feet snuggled up against Sugar’s warm body.

  After the EMDR, perhaps erroneously, Abby had anticipated some kind of a shift in her psyche. For a while, she lay quietly, listening to the doves coo their plaintive lament and the chimes beyond the window intone prayerful harmonies. Then, from the shadowy margins of her consciousness, her thoughts began to slip into a penumbral darkness. Like untethered leaves, her thoughts drifted downward, deeper, beyond the realm of dreams, into a peaceful abyss.

  Upon awakening, Abby discovered that the anxiety she’d felt since the night of the murder had lessened its hold. Not only did she feel rested, but also her thoughts seemed alert, bright, and reflective. She had not gotten up in the middle of the night to check over her house or awakened after imagining a gunshot, one that forced her to check the driveway for a light-colored sedan. Now, sipping her morning coffee with a renewed sense of well-being, she gazed uphill at the silver gambrel roof on Lucas Crawford’s barn. Like that roof, with its two equal slopes on either side, their friendship had evolved a similarly balanced curvature. Both she and Lucas seemed to be waiting for some kind of signal that the other was open to discovering how to bridge the distance between them.

  The words Lucas had spoken to her at Maisey’s pie shop made it pretty clear he wanted to be more than just a good neighbor. And behind the image o
f the fearless, independent woman that she showed the world, Abby secretly longed for that special someone with whom to share her life. Even the remotest possibility that it could be Lucas Crawford sent her spirits soaring.

  A woodpecker whacking at the dead eave of the front porch and the rocker’s runners rapping the patio floor where she sat at the back of her house lulled her into a flight of fancy. With her fingers curled around her morning mug of coffee, she relished the sun warming the marrow of her bones. She hunkered deeper into the sheep’s wool jacket over her pajamas and robe and proffered silent thanks for the EMDR and Olivia Crawford, who knew how to help her find peace again, and for Lucas, who was quietly awakening in her something mysterious and beautiful.

  Her stomach growled, a reminder that she hadn’t eaten. Setting her half-empty coffee mug on the patio table, she pushed her feet, still covered in thick socks, into a pair of garden clogs. After easing up out of the rocker, she strolled toward the orchard to pluck a ripe persimmon.

  The sound of metal rattling stopped her in her tracks. She pivoted in the direction of the sound and saw someone throwing down the chains that secured the gate to the fenced-in property behind hers. Only the landowners entered from the road on the far side. She strained to make out the identity of the visitor and then grimaced when she realized who it was. Henry Brady was wrestling with the unwieldy gate. Struggling, he nevertheless managed to pull it open over the old gravel driveway.

  Arghh. Should have known you’d be back. Abby made a beeline to her patio and entered the kitchen. A folding door separated the kitchen from the washer and dryer area. Intent on helping that man get on his way as soon as possible, she began pulling clothes from the laundry basket. Soon attired in jeans, a cotton turtleneck, and a thick sweater, Abby noted that the hands of the wall clock read ten o’clock as she left the kitchen. After pulling the slider closed behind her to keep Sugar inside, Abby crossed the yard, still damp with morning dew, and headed for the chicken house, the metal fence, and a possible confrontation.