by Judith Rolfs
I put my arm on her shoulder. “I know. It will be good for us to talk.” We ambled toward the house. In the daylight, the residence seemed more comforting than last night. What’s not to like about a rustic country home with wings running in three directions flanked with English gardens?
Estelle sniffled. “Mrs. Lawrence won’t want weeds taking over her roses. Gardening is one of her favorite things. I’ll be keeping up the yard until she’s better.”
“I’m sure she’d appreciate it.”
I waited while Estelle unlocked the front door. Holding it open with her hip, she gestured me in.
I eased onto a blue, floral-cushioned wicker chair in the main living room and asked Estelle to sit. A mistake. She immediately fidgeted, signaling she wasn’t used to sitting in this house.
“Lenora told me more than once how pleased she was to have you, Estelle. As you know I am.”
“Housecleaning seems like doll’s play compared to the farm chores I did growing up.” Her gaze tracked to a crooked picture on the wall of the family room. She jumped up. “I’ll just straighten that.”
Despite Estelle’s large size, she moved gracefully, taking wide strides across the room. She ducked into the kitchen and emerged with a dust cloth in her hand. “You don’t mind if I just touch up a few things while we talk, do you?” She swiped at the coffee table top.
I smiled. “I can’t imagine putting cleaning in the category of play. I have the greatest respect for dedicated scrubbers.” I kept up a patter of small talk a few minutes. It would be best to let her work as we spoke. “I need to ask you some questions related to Lenora’s shooting.”
She halted mid-step, and her cheeks turned red. “I want to help, sure, but now I can’t say anything personal about Mrs. Lawrence. I know she valued her privacy. That wouldn’t be right.” Estelle planted her two feet firmly on the floor as if the area rug had become a witness stand. “Besides, I never paid much attention to her business.”
I doubted that was true. Bless her. Estelle observed everything that went on around her. I prodded. “If you saw or heard anything unusual, Lenora and Tucker would want you to tell me.”
Estelle raised her eyebrows and resumed dusting around tabletop bird sculptures before replying. “Why are you asking? Aren’t the police charging that ex-convict, Kirk Corsini? I never did think Mrs. Lawrence should get involved with felons. I’d like to get my hands on that man.” She waved a fist in the air.
Estelle obviously agreed with Tucker. “I understand your feelings, but her attacker may or may not be Kirk. He’s only a suspect; we’re not sure Kirk or any other ex-convict shot Lenora. Estelle”—I leaned forward—“when a crime’s been committed, anxiety rises in many people connected with the victim. We all want quick closure for our own peace of mind. But still we must be cautious.”
“Mrs. Trevor, wouldn’t Mr. Lawrence know more ’bout her doings than me?”
“Not necessarily, since he wasn’t around during the week.” I motioned Estelle to a chair again, plunked down across from her and looked straight into her eyes.
“Since you’re here twice a week, you know a lot about the things that go on at Wooded Hill.”
“I suppose I do, but I don’t gossip about it.”
“Of course not. It isn’t gossip for you to talk with me. Mrs. Lawrence would welcome my help. I like you guarding Lenora’s privacy, but there’s no time to waste. Mrs. Lawrence is between death and life, but she’s a fighter. If she recovers as we all hope, we need to make sure her assailant won’t return to finish the job. You can help protect her.”
Estelle’s eyes widened.
Did I sound reassuring? I respected Estelle’s loyalty. She smoothed her smock down over her work pants and nodded. Wrinkles wouldn’t dare exist near her.
“What do you want to know?”
I swallowed, relieved. I seemed to be getting through.
“First, you said you were here the day of the shooting?” I picked up my pad and pen to make notes.
“Well, that day stands out because my work days were changed. Usually I do Monday and Wednesday afternoons. But Mrs. Lawrence had to go somewhere Monday, and she liked to be home when I cleaned to tell me anything extra she wanted done. So I came Wednesday and Thursday. I do the linens and the kitchen real good one day and the other, well, I guess you don’t need to know about that. Anyway, I was here the day of the shooting.”
“Start with that morning.”
She pursed her lips. “First she had her ladies’ group.” I jotted down their arrival time. “Then I remember two men came by. Oh, not at the same hour.”
“Can you describe them?”
“I never saw their faces, only heard male voices. You know I’d never stop working to listen, but I couldn’t help hearing ’cause the one man talked kinda loud in Mrs. Lawrence’s den. He came late morning right after her women’s group left, and the other came mid-afternoon. The second one talked regular-like at first but then started yelling.”
“Did you see or hear anything else?”
“I heard a muffled woman’s voice in the afternoon. I didn’t think it was Mrs. Lawrence’s, but I can’t be sure. I figured maybe one of the ladies from her group had stayed and was in there, too. I didn’t notice if they all left after the morning session.”
I scooted closer to the edge of my chair. “Think hard. Did you notice anything else about these visitors?”
“Not really. I mean, lots of times Mrs. Lawrence has people in.” She screwed up her face. “Hmmm. I did set tea in her office for the gentleman in the afternoon before he came. I remember that. Peppermint. Mrs. Lawrence liked mint.”
“Did you hear her say either man’s name or did she mention them afterwards?”
Estelle shook her head. “Mrs. Lawrence never told me names, nothing like that.”
“Can you think of anything else that might have been, err, unusual, Estelle? It’s very important.”
She stared off into space, started to shake her head sideways, then stiffened. “One other thing. When the man who’d come late morning left, Mrs. Lawrence came over to where I was cleaning the mirror and said in a tone kind of sad, ‘Estelle, what would you say about a man who had a precious jewel but wanted to keep it hidden?’”
“Did you answer?”
“I thought a moment then said, ‘I’d think he was afraid of losing it, Mrs. Lawrence, or maybe it wasn’t real at all, and he didn’t want anyone to know.’”
“Good answer. How did she respond?”
“‘Interesting,’ Mrs. Lawrence said real deep and thoughtful, and ‘Thank you. Thank you very much,’ like I’d truly helped her. Kinda surprised me. Made me feel good, I can tell you, for sure.”
“Would you recognize the voice of the man who yelled if you heard it again?”
She scrunched her forehead until lines formed. “I can’t be sure, but I think so. I’m pretty good about catching differences between bird calls.”
I filed that away in my mind and leaned forward. “Did Lenora mention either man after he left?”
“No, but after her morning visitor pulled away, Mrs. Lawrence stomped outside, picked up a rake, and started raking real fast, still dressed in her skirt and silk blouse.”
“That’s unusual?”
“Absolutely. She usually gardened in jeans and a long shirt with hat and gloves because of deer ticks ever since her friend Sue Ann got Lyme’s disease. I worry ’bout that, too. Little Sarah Spooner got horrible sick last summer. Where was I?” Estelle scratched her head.
“Lenora was raking.”
“After about fifteen minutes, she went in and made a phone call. Can’t say to who, but it seemed to soften her some. Mrs. Trevor, I know you’re asking all this, and I hope I’m in the right telling you, but I gotta say I hope you don’t think I was ever intruding. I just can’t help but notice a bit of what’s going on around me.”
“Of course, that’s what I was hoping, Estelle. What about the cars? Did you happen to loo
k out the window when the visitors left?”
“No, I don’t pay no mind to things like that. It wouldn’t have been proper for me to be checking out the window.”
I didn’t like where my thoughts were taking me. Was Lenora involved with another man? Perhaps a current or a former client? I shook my head. Lenora was a Christian. That would be absurd. Still, Christians dealt with temptation every bit as strong as other women.
Tucker had made no mention of Lenora’s counseling a man other than the ex-cons or inmates at the prison. No male names were written in her office appointment book.
“I hope I’m helping,” Estelle said, filling my pause and finally seeming to warm to her role.
“Yes, very much. How about the ladies’ group? Did you happen to see who was here?”
The praise seemed to please Estelle because she was willing to ramble on. I encouraged her by nodding.
“Mrs. Lawrence has her ladies’ counseling group every Thursday morning. I know ’cause I cleaned real good on Wednesday to leave everything nice. They meet in the living room and come in and out the front door so I don’t see them.
“Did you ever see Mr. Lawrence when you cleaned? Did he ever come around during the week?”
“No way. Just weekends. Weekends were kept private for Mr. Lawrence when he was home from Illinois. Don’t think they had much company. I don’t know him at all.”
Estelle squirmed a little when she mentioned Mr. Lawrence? Why?
“Follow me,” I said abruptly. Rising, I led her to the back of the house. “Please take a careful look at Lenora’s office—see the papers and mess everywhere? Is this how the room usually looked?”
Estelle scanned the room. “Yep, she liked the house extra neat, but her office was always cluttered—messy if you ask me, really. Yep. This is how she kept it.”
“Then there isn’t any unusual disarray?”
“No, you never could see her desktop or much of the floor either, for that matter. I could have straightened it up real nice for her, but she never let me touch it.”
“Thanks, Estelle, that’s all for now. If you remember anything else regarding those men or the women, call me.”
“Sure.” Estelle twisted the rag in her hands. “Can I tell you something, Dr. Trevor? I’m scared. I don’t want to lose Mrs. Lawrence.”
“Nor I.” I gritted my teeth. “That’s not going to happen if we can prevent it, right?”
I emerged from the house into strong wind that whipped my hair. A storm loomed in the darkening sky. Rainstorms in convertibles were not fun.
I proceeded to put the top up. Like a giant accordion it emerged from its creased position and expanded over me. I fastened the corner strips that held it in place before winding down the gravel driveway to the main road.
A woman walked along the side of the road wearing jeans and a misshapen, over-sized sweater. She darted into the field, moving against the wind as raindrops pelted her skin. I assumed she was Lenora’s neighbor. She had no umbrella, not even a rain hat. Was she heading for cover? The woman didn’t run but kept moving steadily in the direction of a rust-colored barn. Her head tucked down on her chest was the only indication of being pelted by heavy rain. Middle-aged, maybe younger, she reminded me of a stricken bird unable to fly in a fierce wind.
I pulled my gaze back to the road and squeezed the steering wheel. Inexplicably, a sense of sadness washed over me, forceful as the rain against my window.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Every marriage and family counseling office should have an Ellen, my competent fifty-five-year-old administrative assistant and receptionist. I shuddered to think what disarray my paperwork and calendar would be like without her.
Standing in front of my desk, Ellen fluffed the top of her thinning hair with one hand. “I don’t know what to make of this shooting. A woman can’t be safe in her own home. What’s this world coming to?”
“You’re right. It’s frightening. I’m concerned for our clients already dealing with anxiety whose worry has intensified.” I sorted through the list of names I’d culled from Lenora’s appointment book without looking up and passed it to her. “Please call each of these women Lenora has been currently counseling. Inform them tactfully of her condition, if they don’t already know, and ask if they wish to temporarily continue therapy with me.”
“And if they do?”
“Under the circumstances, I’ll need signed and faxed Consent to Release permission forms to collect their files from Lenora’s office. I want to know if any are in crisis situations. If they wish to see me, fit them in as soon as possible.”
Ellen’s face formed into a frown. “As if you aren’t busy enough.” She had a knack for speaking under her breath loud enough to be heard.
I ignored her response. “Use our standard release form. You know the routine.”
Every professional counselor has ethics drilled into them. Clients’ files were only examined with their permission. Respecting confidentiality was a huge issue with me. Also, because I treasured my own.
“All I can say is they’re lucky ducks to get in to see you with your schedule.”
“And that’s more than I need to hear.”
I let Ellen get away with such comments because she was also my stress protector, guarding me when I crammed my schedule. Occasionally, Ellen overstepped her bounds, turning into a nag. For the most part, I appreciated the vigilance on my behalf, her genuine compassion for clients, and nearly flawless record keeping.
The only time she neglected to be solicitous of my time was during the Windemere murder investigation. As a devotee of mystery stories, she’d have me working to investigate and solve a crime seventy hours a week. I teasingly named her Ellerina Queen.
“Before I call, do you think…” Ellen brightened visibly. “Maybe one of these women shot Lenora. Do I need to be alert for clues? I mean, they’d been at her house, knew where she lived, and could have gotten upset if she confronted them about something. Sometimes I’ve seen clients leave here angry with you when you’re just telling them the truth and trying to help.”
“Ellen, absolutely no probing. Just make the calls.”
My skin tingled at the prospect of seeing if anyone had a motive to harm Lenora, but I had to handle querying them delicately. A woman could handle a rifle as easily as a man. “Tell each woman she’s welcome to come meet me before making a decision about working with me. No charge.”
Ellen tossed her head in the air. “I’m sure they’ll take you up on it.” She snapped her notebook shut.
I chuckled.
Liking all freebies, Ellen assumed everyone else did. “Your pro bono work is three times what it should be.”
“Lenora cared about these clients. She’d help me if our positions were switched.”
“Right.” Ellen huffed and turned to leave.
“If I don’t have daytime hours free, add a Tuesday or Thursday night. One more thing, have I told you lately how much I appreciate you?”
Her mouth dissolved into a grin.
When she left to make the calls, I experienced a sense of peace. Finally I was performing actions on Lenora’s behalf.
Next, I studied Lenora’s appointment book and recorded the names listed the past three months, which I considered the most crucial time period. If Lenora’s shooting had been a passionate crime of vengeance, a deranged person usually couldn’t control the fury to act out by waiting for very long.
The initials R. M. filled the four o’clock calendar time slot the day Lenora had been shot. I didn’t have any idea who R. M. was. The name T. Hartford was written without a time, just a notation between ten and noon. Perhaps Tucker would know to whom the initials referred. I wasn’t about to rule anyone out as a suspect.
I tried to locate a Hartford with the first initial T online. No luck. I stood, stretched, and walked into my break room, actually a remodeled closet with a small refrigerator and microwave above the one and only cabinet that stood next to a small round ta
ble with two chairs. The cabinet held three ceramic coffee mugs, boxes of tea, herbal and regular orange pekoe and black, and coffee.
I reached into my canvas bag for a banana, one of the mainstays of my diet. The golf course scene printed on the bag transported me mentally to pleasant thick green fairways. Not that I was a serious player—I saw the rough more often. I tossed the peel and wiped my fingers on a Kleenex.
Sessions with Lenora’s clients along with mine, plus visiting Kirk, would add considerable stress to my life. It couldn’t be helped. Where the Lord led, He equipped. How I needed those reminders.
Twenty minutes later, Ellen was back at my desk reporting on her calls. “Sandy Reckland will use her lunch hour today to fill your one o’clock cancellation. She has no objection to having you review her file after her appointment and will sign the release. Nor does Carrie Malone. She’s coming in Monday morning. Esther Forbes won’t be needing more counseling. She’s fine; a flap over a family inheritance is cleared up.” Ellen put the names and numbers on my desk.
“Great.”
“And get this. The two gals who are coming to see you had counseling sessions on the day Lenora was shot.”
“I know, thanks.”
I ambled out to the reception area where I kept the cart with carafes of hot water and coffee for my clients and filled a mug with water from the pot on the warming unit. Ripping open the wrap on a tea bag, I swished brown streaks through the steaming water, the extent of my creativity for the day unless I counted the wild thoughts swirling in my brain as creative.
Two clients were followed by a quick lunch of half a cold turkey sandwich, and one o’clock chimed.
I strolled into the reception area to welcome Lenora’s counselee, Sandy. I reached out my hand to the tall woman with a Starbucks cup of comfort in her grasp. “Hello, I’m Dr. Trevor. Please come in.”