Not a Sound

by Heather Gudenkauf

  Barb is speaking and I try to concentrate on her lips so I understand what she is saying but I can’t. It’s clear from her face that she doesn’t believe me.

  “Please, call Dr. Huntley,” I say. “I need to talk to him.” Barb shakes her head.

  I’m able to catch a few of her words. “Leave now.”

  My eyes shoot to Lori, who is now staring down at her shoes. “It’s not mine,” I say again, barely able to form the words. I now know there is no way back. Every move I’ve made the past few weeks, every word I’ve uttered will be examined and interpreted and judged. “You can take a blood test. It will prove there’s no alcohol in my system,” I say, presenting my arm as an offering.

  Barb gestures toward my name badge and I know she’s asking me to turn it in. By now the other staff are standing in doorways, not quite coming into the reception area but close enough to be able to witness my humiliation.

  Lori absentmindedly starts stroking Stitch’s head and for some reason this infuriates me. Even in this short time I’ve worked closely with Lori and there is no way that she could have seen me taking a drink, no way that I could have been intoxicated in her presence. How could she so quickly turn on me?

  “Ke mne,” I say softly to Stitch, but he stays put, contentedly basking in Lori’s caresses.

  I catch more snippets of what Barb has in store for me if I don’t cooperate. “Nursing board...charges...don’t come back.”

  What can I do? Am I just going to sit back and let David ruin my reputation? Ruin what’s left of the tattered remains of my meager career? When I was drinking so heavily, the only consolation I had was that I wasn’t nursing at the time. I didn’t put patients in any danger. The only person I hurt was me, I tell myself. But I know this isn’t true. I hurt my family. I hurt my dad and my brother by the way I isolated myself from them and cut off communication with them. I destroyed my marriage to David and most regretfully, I hurt Nora. She deserved a mother who was there for her every day. There for her when she woke up in the morning and went to bed at night. I blew it.

  “Don’t make me call security,” Barb says, tilting her head toward the door.

  Fight, I tell myself. David did this, I know it. But what proof do I have? Nothing concrete that I could hand over to Jake and say, “See, I told you.” But Jake would never believe me. Why should he? I’ve been coming to him for the last few weeks with my half-baked theories of who might have murdered Gwen. He’d think I’m crazy, that I’m overreacting.

  And David will get away with murdering Gwen and will never let me see Nora again.

  “I’m going,” I say, reaching into the file drawer for my sweater. It’s still damp and I can smell the yeasty scent of Wild Turkey infused in the fabric. David doused it with bourbon for good measure just to drive home the point in case there was any doubt. Any functioning alcoholic knows that you don’t hide the strongest smelling booze in your desk drawer. I wonder in what other ways he’s sabotaged me. David is well respected in our community. There is no way I can combat that.

  I place my identification badge and key card in Barb’s open palm. Leaving the doughnuts and coffee on the counter I turn to leave. Stitch hangs back. I’m sure he’s wondering why we’re leaving already. We just got here. I don’t want to have to call for him. I don’t want to have to order him to follow me. This would be the ultimate degradation—me, begging my dog to come with me and Stitch refusing. By the time I reach the door, to my relief, Stitch is at my side.

  “Houdny, houdny,” I whisper through tears now falling freely. Good, good.

  A light snow has started to fall. A storm is fast approaching. I hurry through the parking lot to my Jeep and unlock the door. I load Stitch into the car and climb in after him.

  Now I’m convinced that Gwen had something on David. Maybe he missed something important during Jo Ellen’s pregnancy. Maybe he acted inappropriately with his patients, maybe he acted inappropriately with Gwen and that’s why he killed her. I don’t know but now he’s trying to silence me—not by killing me but by discrediting me in such a way that no one can take me seriously.

  I don’t know what to do. I consider driving straight to the police station and telling Jake what has happened and insist that he go after David but I know that he won’t. I stopped short of telling Jake everything and even if Jake was to believe me he can’t just start accusing David of murder. I have zero proof. I lay my head on the steering wheel and try to get my bearings.

  Ten minutes later, when I finally raise my head the windows are completely covered by snow and the steering wheel is damp with my tears. I can’t sit here forever and the last thing I need is for Barb to call security and have them come out into the parking lot and escort me from the property. Stitch has stretched out the full length of the backseat and, apparently oblivious to my distress, is dozing.

  He’s not going to get away with this, I tell myself. He is not going to ruin my life. I turn on the windshield wipers to clear the windows and begin to drive. David killed Gwen and I’m going to let him know that I know it.

  I take a quick left in the direction of David’s clinic and my tires slide on the slick pavement, nearly sending me into the back end of the car in front of me. I slam on the brakes and skid to a stop with a bump against the curb, and Stitch nearly tumbles off the backseat. Slow down, I tell myself. The last thing I need is to get in a car accident after being accused of drinking at work.

  I ease the Jeep back onto the road and carefully maneuver through the icy streets well below the posted speed limit. There is no sign of David’s car at his clinic so my next stop is at Queen of Peace. I crawl slowly along the dim parking ramp, past the parking spaces set aside exclusively for physicians, looking for David’s Lexus. If he’s delivering a baby he won’t be able to talk to me, but he could just be making rounds. I know the hospital isn’t the place to have this conversation but hell, everyone seems to think I’m a raving drunk anyway. At least our conversation will be in public and David can’t hurt me here.

  Despite the fact that it’s daytime, the parking ramp is shadowy and deserted. I’m hesitant to leave my car. Maybe it’s not enough for David to set me up, get me fired, make the world think I’m drinking again. Maybe he wants me dead too.

  I open the car door and cautiously step outside. I have no idea if David is skulking nearby, car idling, ready to run me down. I want to bring Stitch inside with me but think better of it. Given the conversation I need to have with David, I’m liable to sic Stitch on him.

  I stay as far away as I can from the driving lanes, hugging the parked cars. I feel the vibrations first, the shiver of concrete beneath my feet. I step into the gap left between two cars and jump back just as a car comes flying around the corner. I flash back to when Stacey Barnes and I were hit and think maybe this is how David is going to kill me. The car shoots past and right away I know it’s not David’s Lexus, just a van driving much too fast for the narrow lane. I rush toward the doors, swiveling my head to look around for any more oncoming cars and push through a second-floor entrance. I immediately duck into a bathroom. My eyes are swollen and red and my skin blotchy from my tears. I need to try and be calm and rational when I confront David. I take the nearest elevator to Maternity.

  I stop at the main desk and ask for Dr. Winn. “Are you a patient of Dr. Winn’s?” asks the nurse. I don’t recognize the woman, and inexplicably, I feel a bubble of laughter rise in my chest. She has no idea who I am. David never had any intention of getting back together. The only reason he expressed a newfound interest in me, the only reason he invited me over for dinner was to find out what I knew about Gwen’s death. He never even mentioned me to his coworkers.

  “I’m Dr. Winn’s wife,” I say. “It’s important that I talk to him.”

  “Can I take a message?” she says. “He’s just finishing up with a delivery.”

  “I need to talk
to him now,” I snap, and she flinches.

  “Certainly,” she says. “I’ll page him right away.”

  I pace the hallway, my stomach sour, and I’m grateful that I hadn’t yet eaten one of the doughnuts that I brought to the office. I know I wouldn’t be able to keep it down.

  I’m just about ready to lose my nerve and leave when I see him, dressed in his blue scrubs and moving leisurely through the hallway toward me. He looks so nonchalant, so calm. How could I have ever married a man capable of such deceit? Not only did he give up on me after my accident when I needed him most, I’m confident that he’s the one who killed Gwen.

  When he sees the look on my face his expression turns to concern. “Amelia,” he says, reaching for my hands, “what’s wrong? Did something happen to Nora?”

  I shake his hands from mine. “I know what you’re up to, David. I know what you did,” I snap.

  People are starting to stare, and David pulls me into an empty patient room. “Jesus, Amelia, what the hell are you talking about?”

  “I know Gwen figured out that you had something to do with Jo Ellen Beadle’s death and you killed her. You’re trying to make me think I’m crazy. You planted alcohol in my desk at work. You got me fired. I don’t know how you did it, David, but you’re not going to get away with this.” I must be nearly shouting now because David shuts the door and puts a finger to his lips.

  “Quiet down, Amelia,” David orders. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, but you can’t come in here and accuse me of...of what exactly? Murder? Putting alcohol in your desk? Do you know how crazy you sound?”

  “I’m not crazy,” I say, knowing that I sound like a petulant child.

  “Go home,” he says and tries to go past me but I step in front of the door to block his exit. This is how it is with David. When he’s finished with you it’s like you don’t exist.

  “You lied to me. You said you hadn’t seen Gwen in months but you did. She was one of your patients. She found out something about you. Something you didn’t want anyone to know. So you killed her, put her in your boat and dumped her...”

  David takes a step toward me, eyes narrowed in fury. I turn away but he grabs my chin, forcing me to look at him. “Shut the fuck up, Amelia. You are a sad, lonely drunk who needs to go home before I call the police.” He drops his hand and brushes roughly past me and out the door.

  I drop into a nearby chair. I can’t believe I confronted him like this. He’s right about one thing. I must be crazy—I just accused my husband of murder. But what if getting me fired from my job isn’t enough for David? What if he comes after me? I need to make some kind of plan, but the only thing I can think of is to call Jake and I’m already on shaky ground with him as it is.

  This has gone too far. This is my life. My family. David isn’t going to get away with this. I get in my Jeep and when I pull from the parking garage onto the street the light snow has thickened into fat, lazy flakes that cling to everything they touch. Tree limbs and street signs are cloaked in a lacy white covering. This all begins and ends with Gwen and the only other person who seems to have made this connection to my husband is an obsessive-compulsive quasi-stalker who lives in his parents’ house and spends his free time in a garage, pasting news articles about his murdered ex-girlfriend into a scrapbook. Peter McNaughton has to be able to provide some clarity. For some reason he thinks David is an integral piece in figuring out who killed Gwen and I’m going to go find out why.

  21

  I drive to Peter’s bookstore, The Book Broker, in hopes of talking to Peter in a public place. Although by all accounts he’s harmless, I want to see him where there are plenty of people around and no way he can go off on me again. I also bring Stitch in for moral support.

  The Book Broker is on Depot Street, a neighborhood where daily trains still rattle through the heart of downtown Mathias carrying a variety of cargo: corn and soybeans, coal, chemicals and ethanol. The Depot neighborhood, as it’s called, is equal parts run-down industrial and revitalized hip. This stretch of street has been refurbished and also includes an organic grocery store and one of those art studios where you can bring your own booze and for forty bucks can paint a masterpiece, led step by step by a professional artist. Two blocks north you’ll find the crumbling facades of old businesses and factories with broken-out windows. I find a parking spot right out front of the narrow redbrick building flanked snugly by a law office and a bar.

  I push through the door and except for the walls and walls of books, I could be back in Peter’s immaculate garage. The books appear to be organized by subject and despite the vague smell of musty paper, they look like they are in excellent condition. There are several cabinets situated throughout the store with a variety of tomes and anthologies locked behind their glass doors. Peter emerges from the shelves with a stack of books in his arms. He looks up, his eyes widen in alarm and he begins to speak rapidly so I’m not able to understand him.

  “Please slow down,” I tell him. “You’re speaking too fast and I can’t read your lips.”

  “I said,” Peter begins, exaggerating the movement of his mouth, “you can’t bring a dog in here.”

  “Just slow down, but talk normally. And he’s my service dog,” I explain. “Legally I can bring him with me wherever I may need his help. He’s friendly.”

  “I really don’t want to talk to you,” Peter says. “We’re closed.” He moves to the exit and opens the door, waiting for me and Stitch to leave.

  “Wait,” I call after him. “Peter, please, it’s okay. I just need to ask you a few questions.”

  Reluctantly, he shuts the door and comes back to his spot behind the counter. “Listen,” he says. “I’m sorry about the other day, when I was yelling at you. I really am. That isn’t me...”

  I hold up my hand to stop him. “That’s not why I’m here,” I say. “I’m sorry if I caused you any problems with the police but it’s Gwen I’m thinking about.”

  “She’s all I think about too. I can’t believe she’s gone,” he says, and I feel a pang of sympathy for him. He truly is a lonely man. All he appears to have is a demanding father and this bookstore. No wonder he is mourning Gwen’s passing so deeply.

  “I promise I have just one question, then I’ll leave you alone.” Peter looks like he’s going to refuse. I expect him to just send me away but he doesn’t. He waits for me to ask my question.

  “In the parking lot the other day, you started to say something and I just need to know what you meant by it. You said that I needed to ask my husband about Gwen’s death. What did he do? How do you know it was him?”

  Peter looks perplexed and then begins speaking. I need to stop him and slow him down again. “I didn’t say anything about your husband. I didn’t even know you were married.”

  I stand there stunned for a moment. “But you said, ‘You need to ask your husband...’”

  “That’s not what I said,” Peter says, coming out from behind his counter and taking a moment to walk through the stacks to see if the store is empty. When he’s sure we are alone he continues. “I told you to ask Joe Huntley, your boss.”

  I stand there in stunned silence, my mind momentarily blank. “Say that again,” I tell him. “More slowly.”

  I watch his mouth carefully as he repeats himself. “I said, I told you to go ask Joe Huntley.”

  A shiver slithers a path down my back. “Why? What does Dr. Huntley have to do with Gwen?”

  “I probably shouldn’t have said anything. Just forget it.”

  “Peter, this is important. Tell me why you think Dr. Huntley is involved.”

  Peter is quiet for a moment but when he realizes I’m not going anywhere he continues. “I saw them together. Last month. Gwen and Dr. Huntley. In front of the coffee shop across the street.” I turn and look at the shop he’s referring to. I
’ve been there several times. The shop is spacious with high ceilings and mismatched tables and chairs, and colorful paintings and mosaics made from broken teacups cover the walls. The baristas behind the counter don’t even bat an eye at the presence of Stitch.

  “I was inside getting coffee when I looked out the window and saw Dr. Huntley and Gwen. They started talking loudly, arguing. I went outside to see if Gwen needed help.”

  Again, I make him slow down and repeat himself so I’m clear as to what he is telling me. “What were they fighting about?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. By the time I got there they stopped arguing but they both looked upset. Gwen said she was fine, but she didn’t like it when people played God. Dr. Huntley left and then Gwen left and I came back to the shop.”

  I don’t like it when people play God. This is exactly what Marty said that Gwen had told him in reference to a patient or a woman she knew who was pregnant. Jo Ellen Beadle.

  “Thank you, Peter,” I say.

  None of this is making much sense. Hadn’t Dr. Huntley told me he didn’t even know who Gwen was? If this was true, why would he and Gwen be having words in front of the coffee shop? Is it possible that the connection between Gwen and Jo Ellen Beadle wasn’t David, but Dr. Huntley? If I was going to find out, I’d need access to the center’s files. The center I just got fired from. I needed to get back in there and I needed to get my hands on Jo Ellen Beadle’s medical file.

  22

  The center closes at six during the week. Lori should still be there. Dr. Huntley, Dr. Sabet and Barb will most likely be gone, along with most of the other patients and staff. My hope is to convince Lori that I need to pick up a few more personal items that I left behind in my rush to leave the center this morning. I need to get my hands on Jo Ellen’s files.

  I stop at an electronics store and buy a high-speed 256 GB flash drive, hoping that I’ll actually be able to get past Lori and to my computer in order to use it.