by Judith Rolfs
Unlocking the front door of her home, the chill of the living room jolted her. Nothing like a tundra to warm the heart. Whitney chuckled in spite of her disappointment. Assuming she’d be out late, she’d set her thermostat to kick back on at midnight. Small economies helped squeeze her journalist’s salary to make the mortgage payment. So much for Jordan Caldwell. I can use the extra sleep.
At least, Lord, you never let me down. Whitney pulled her Bible from the nightstand and opened to I John. “We love God because He first loved us.”
“Good riddance,” Whitney said aloud before closing her eyes. She’d been down the path of self-pity too often to choose that scenery again.
SEVEN
Whitney numbly settled her office phone on its cradle. Her composure evaporated. Sweat poured down beneath her armpits. How could she possibly report this murder?
At a paper in a town the size of Cortland City, the senior editor covered major news as well as tweaked staff articles. A breaking, local murder was too important for anyone but her. She wasn’t being proud, simply realistic. I wish I weren’t the most qualified newswoman.
The forty-eight-year-old mother of her friend, Ellie, had been shot. Whitney’s personal connection with the victim made this task even harder. But could she ever be comfortable visiting the scene of a shooting? Whitney shut her eyes during routine blood tests. Would she freak out now?
Ellie had called her to come immediately. She must be devastated. At least Whitney could give her condolences personally. She buzzed Don, her office manager, to rearrange her schedule and cover her other appointments and then headed to the car.
News of murder in Cortland City, a sleepy resort town of 40,000, would travel faster than an October dip in the Dow, frightening tourists and residents alike. Local citizens deserved concise facts before rumormongers went on the rampage.
She strained forward at the wheel of her two-year-old Honda as if her energy could propel the car faster than the 35 MPH speed limit.
This wasn’t the first murder or suicide in Cortland City by a long shot, but the first since Whitney had been editor. Crime tended to be more prevalent in the larger gambling communities to the north.
Two police cars were parked outside the house when Whitney arrived. Access inside was restricted by crime scene tape, but she was allowed on the porch after showing press credentials to the policeman there. That wouldn’t have happened with NYPD, she was sure. From this vantage she had a good view through the picture window of the forensic team hard at work.
Whitney knew Elaine O’Connell as petite and youthful-looking, not ashen and very dead. She shuddered. The police photographer had just finished taking pictures. A man with coroner on his nametag slid a plastic sheet over Elaine’s fully dressed body. He motioned to two other men, and she was carried out on a stretcher.
Ellie sat in the living room with a police officer, examining photographs. Her face was red and swollen. Through the open door Whitney heard Ellie say, “This was taken a year ago. Here’s Mom with her sister about a month ago.”
“These two will be enough.” The officer slid the pictures into a folder gingerly. “We’ll return them when we’re done.”
They rose and Ellie caught sight of Whitney, rushed over, and pulled her inside. She fell into Whitney’s arms and began crying afresh. The police guard at the door looked away.
“Ellie, what a horrible thing. I’m so sorry.” Whitney knew from experience how meaningless words of sympathy were at such a time.
“Thanks, Mom is—was—the kindest, dearest person in the world. Who would do such a thing?” Ellie sputtered between sobs.
Whitney embraced Ellie until her crying subsided. Together they glided back to the couch and sat side by side. Ellie blew her nose noisily.
Whitney grabbed a tissue and wiped her own eyes. “Was there a robbery? Perhaps an addict looking for drug money. Was anything taken?”
“Not that I can tell.” Ellie sniffled. “Mom had $70 in her purse, untouched... It’s the most senseless thing...”
“For sure.” Whitney’s voice was clear but quivering. This was bringing up memories still too fresh. “I’m so sorry.”
Ellie turned her face away. “Everyone is. That doesn’t help...”
“I know.”
Ellie groaned and wrung her hands. “The police asked me about Mom’s mental state. They think she may have…I can’t say the word…done this to herself. That’s impossible. How could anyone believe for even a minute she’d kill herself?”
“They’re just doing their job.” An accusing inner voice jolted Whitney. Ellie doesn’t know about my mom’s unusual death. I wish now I’d told her, but it was so hard to speak of. Might knowing I shared her painful emotions help? Whitney pursed her lips. This wasn’t the time.
“I want you to get news of Mom’s murder in the paper immediately.” Ellie spoke between sniffles. “Maybe someone will come forward with information about her killer.” Ellie leaned over from the waist and wrapped her arms around her stomach. “Whitney, I’m so angry I’m sick. Why didn’t God stop this?”
“I don’t know. People have free will. Everyone makes choices for good or evil.” Whitney patted her back. “How about if I take you back to your apartment to get some rest? I’ll collect the facts I need for my article from the police.”
“I’m drained, but I can drive.” Ellie stood. Her legs wobbled. She pressed against Whitney then steadied herself. “I called Mom’s friend, Dr. Sarah Stevens, a Christian counselor. I’m going to see her now.”
“Let me walk you out.” Whitney wrapped her arm around Ellie’s shoulder. They hugged goodbye at her car with Whitney promising to call later.
A police deputy approached Whitney. “Maybe you can help your friend. It appears she’s in denial. She thinks her mom was murdered, but it’s very likely she committed suicide.”
Whitney’s head began to swim. Was this déjà vu?
He shrugged his shoulders, giving a sad smile. “The young lady is having trouble accepting it. Claims her mom would never kill herself. Yet the scene seems to speak for itself.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Whitney tried not to show the emotion coursing through her veins.
Another senseless death. What was going on?
EIGHT
Dr. Sarah Stevens sensed Ellie’s urgency more by her tone than her words. Ellie had said little except, “It’s a crisis I don’t want to discuss on the phone. I need to see you as soon as possible, please.”
“Of course, come, Ellie. I’m with a client, but I’ll be free in half an hour. I’ll stay a little later. No, it’s no trouble.” And it wasn’t. Sarah’s husband, an airline pilot, was on an overnight flight to Paris.
Ellie, the delightful young woman who attended Sarah’s church and had been in a Sunday school class she’d taught, was priority. Sarah had had the privilege of discipling the young girl.
Dr. Sarah Stevens breathed deeply, turning back to Patti, the client in her office. She listened intently to this thirty-two-year-old willful wife who wanted to “fulfill herself” by leaving her husband and children.
Buying the lie. Sarah explained as tactfully as she could, “The permanence of marriage vows is intended to motivate you to work at having a joyful, intimate relationship.” Sarah quoted the Proverb, “How foolish is the woman who tears down her house with her own hands.” Sarah prayed as she spoke. Reveal this truth to her heart, Lord.
“But I don’t ever feel emotionally close to my husband anymore. And there’s this understanding man I met…”
“I can give you some intimacy tips to help you rekindle the affection for your husband.”
“You don’t get it. My husband is insensitive. My life with him is miserable.”
“I agree God doesn’t want you miserable in your relationship, but often harmony is just a matter of getting the right communication tools in your toolboxes. God wants you equipped to make that happen. How about if you stay put while we work at this?”
Sarah understood. This woman had already persuaded herself divorce was the answer and had come to counseling to justify it in her mind.
“I don’t know what to do,” her client whispered.
“Give marriage counseling six weeks for the sake of your children at least. Don’t throw in the towel without trying. Children suffer in ways you can’t even imagine when parents divorce.” Sarah described in detail the difficulty they’d have in the future.
“I guess I wasn’t thinking about them.” Patti’s face whitened.
“Let’s get your marriage in better shape, and then you can re-evaluate options.”
Sarah set up six appointments with Patti and her husband to cover communication, conflict resolution, personality work, and emotional and sexual intimacy.
Patti walked out, looking like several pounds had been lifted off her back.
Thank you, Lord. Now please make this counseling work. Sarah was grateful she could enhance her counseling with the power of prayer. The spiritual dimension adds so much, Lord. Secular counselors, like her friend Karen Trindle, taught communication skills, but they were only effective to a degree.
Thinking of Karen reminded Sarah she needed to contact her about their upcoming community mental health event. She reached for her phone.
“Glad I caught you, Karen. Our next workshop is three weeks from tomorrow. Can you meet me for lunch Monday to prepare?”
“Works for me.”
“How about Herro’s at noon?”
“Sure. See you then.”
Sarah nestled into the swivel chair behind her polished mahogany desk. Her office, an oasis in soft greens and blues, had been decorated to give clients a sensation of peace. She’d never wanted to be anything but a people-helper, although medical school had enticed her first. Her counseling had required a five-year graduate program for a Ph.D., but a medical residency would have added several more years. Her husband, Pete, had encouraged her to become a “doctor of souls” instead. She never regretted it.
Despite Sarah’s love for her work, raising her own five children and sharing life with Pete was her chief joy. Now that the children were grown, using her counseling skills coupled with Christian wisdom to help people live satisfying, God-honoring lives gave deep meaning to her days.
Sarah had never stopped to count all the people she’d counseled since beginning her practice, but it was a lot. She often prayed for them collectively.
Without advertising for business, she’d always had more clients than she could see from word-of-mouth referrals. Sarah sensed their heartaches, sometimes almost physically. Without the grace of God, she couldn’t counsel. Knowing God was the Supreme Healer working through her gave her the confidence to continue—that and Pete’s constant encouragement.
Sarah never knew what any twenty-four hours would bring. Her thoughts returned to today’s call from Ellie O’Connell while she waited for her arrival. Whatever the emergency, Ellie didn’t want to discuss it over the phone. Sarah prayed for wisdom to help her. The poor girl had sounded desperate.
She checked her watch. Ten past.
Where are you, Ellie?
NINE
Dancing oak leaves made flickering shadows on the beige carpet at Dr. Karen Trindle’s lake home. She was enjoying a lazy Saturday afternoon in the living room reading. Usually decorating or gardening projects occupied her time. Not today. After a tough workweek, she was determined to savor a rare weekend of nothing strenuous. So far she’d succeeded.
Karen settled back in her recliner and opened up the local paper more avidly now that she knew the editor.
In the middle of page one Karen jerked upright and reread the title of the feature, “Murder, Then and Now,” by Whitney Barnes. Karen devoured the information. Two gruesome murders in the Cortland City area were described in explicit detail. One man killed seven co-eds on their college campus twenty years ago. Another woman axed her two sisters thirty-five years ago while they were in bed sleeping.
The article recounted other recent murders, unusual accidents, and possible suicides. Kendra Starin’s accident in Ireland was included. Hadn’t Whitney said she didn’t like calling attention to her mother’s death? But then who would connect Kendra Starin to her daughter Whitney Barnes with the name difference? If only Whitney could let go of this murder theory. It would do no good to continue obsessing that her mom’s death wasn’t an accident.
The story irritated Karen, as did seeing Elaine O’Connell’s death listed as suspicious instead of a suicide as she’d heard rumored. Had Whitney influenced Elaine’s daughter, Ellie, to believe this? How irresponsible to distress another woman in her grief. Not to mention instilling fear by this article. Was this a terrible, if effective, ploy to sell papers, used perhaps unconsciously by a daughter who couldn’t accept her mother’s death? Whitney needed to stop.
Why do I bother trying to help strong-willed women like Whitney when they refuse to follow my advice?
Karen turned the page and continued to read. From a professional, psychological point of view, the conjectured motives behind the serial killings intrigued her.
What had happened in these human relationships from the past to make people decide murder was the best option? She wondered if any psychiatrists had left notes on these early legal cases. Probably not. People didn’t delve into psychology much before Freud stirred international interest.
Enough, Karen told herself, refolding the paper. She checked the clock on the mantle. Her nephew, Jordan, was coming for dinner. She always enjoyed his company. Her husband, Charles, did all the cooking since he’d retired, but she planned the menu—baked chicken, rice pilaf, and broccoli.
Charles fancied himself a gourmet chef, although his cooking wasn’t quite up to her standard. Not much he did was. They’d married young, and different interests and life experiences had pulled them apart. Charles found contentment in fishing, golf, and his other hobbies. Karen delighted in her work and garden.
She glanced up as Charles strolled in, an apron over his golf shirt and Dockers. He carried a silver tray with soft drinks, salsa, and chips.
“Dinner’s almost ready.” He smiled. “I whipped up a lemon pound cake to serve with fresh fruit for dessert. You’re going to love it.”
Karen stood and stretched. “I’ll set the table after I change.”
She threw the newspaper into the kindling bin next to the fireplace. Enough of this murder business.
TEN
Blaine Cartier awoke from a sound sleep, dreaming her daughter Cindy was calling, “Mom.” She jumped out of bed and ran straight into Cindy’s bedroom then froze.
Painful memories hit like a hurricane. Cindy’s fragile yet still beautiful body, retching and coughing, those uncomplaining eyes that followed Blaine from her bed. The whispered words spoken trustingly. “Do it, Mommy, pound on me. It’s okay. You know the doctor wants you to.” She fell to her knees next to the little corner table used as a desk when Cindy couldn’t attend school with her friends.
Blaine didn’t know how long she knelt there before staggering back to her own room and flopping sideways across the bed.
The start of another bad day. When it began like this, the tone was set. Still, the horrid days were getting fewer and fewer. She tried to encourage herself.
Self-examination followed. She braced herself. What might she have done differently? She couldn’t believe it was wrong to make her husband and child the priority of her life.
Her family of origin was a small and crazy one, definitely not typical, but she loved them all. They influenced her to believe that after God, family was most important.
Wasn’t I the best mom Cindy could have had? Hadn’t she told me that almost daily the year before she died? Even during those final months together, we found joy every day somewher
e—in snowflakes and leaves and storybooks.
Cindy’s father, Larry, had blamed Jesus and bailed out. He didn’t have the faith she had to endure. Larry went to church when things were good, but stopped when the need became immense and the answer he wanted wasn’t coming. God never promised a perfect world, Blaine told him over and over.
She understood that. Yes, she forgot some days, but always the grace came again to endure an agony that couldn’t be changed. Larry wouldn’t even try. She’d tried not to judge him for being a quitter, but it was hard. At least Blaine didn’t carry guilt about having given her all.
The week after the funeral, she’d sorted through Cindy’s clothes and toys, packing items for Goodwill. Cindy would have wanted her to pass them on. She kept the big white teddy bear Cindy slept with and the storybooks she most loved. Blaine had made sure Cindy owned the children’s classics—Andersen’s Fairy Tales, Heidi, Little Women. She’d also saved Cindy’s rocker that had been Blaine’s as a little girl. It sat in the corner of her room holding two American Girl dolls. Eventually she’d give them away but not yet. Seeing these objects made Cindy still seem part of her life.
“God,” she moaned, pressing her face into a pillow. “I’ll never know why you allowed Cindy to suffer so long or why she wasn’t healed. I believe your healing power is real. I prayed long and hard enough. I know I did. Yes, I still had doubts, just like the father in the Bible who said, ‘I believe, help my unbelief.’ You healed His son. Why not my daughter?”
Finally, the Voice came. It always did, not speaking out loud but straight into her heart. Someday you’ll understand. Trust me. Time on earth compared to eternity is but a vapor. You’ll see her again, and when you do, her body will be perfect.
Only then could Blaine get out of bed and force her body to begin the day. She folded her worn pink velour robe around her like a life vest.
A cup of tea to wash down a bagel and she was ready to prepare her notes for the Shakespeare lesson she’d teach during her night class. She needed to write everything down now. Spontaneous ideas eluded her, along with her short-term memory. Some kind of anxiety had gripped her mind and scattered her thoughts. Forty-five minutes later, she tossed the Merchant of Venice and her notebook in her black briefcase. She hadn’t come up with a clever creative writing assignment, so she’d have them outline. Why was it so difficult to concentrate?