by Judith Rolfs
Jillian’s voice echoed in his brain. She’d begged him not to leave her. “Edward, I love you and understand you. I’m your helpmate. I accept things about you that Tara never will.”
Had Jillian been right? He’d been greatly surprised and disturbed that the dissatisfaction within himself was still present after his divorce. Was it possible his former wife hadn’t been the problem after all? Could he have made a huge mistake? His child-wife was unbelievably self-centered. Who was going to take care of him?
For an instant he allowed himself to wish Tara were dead. His mind began to fantasize how he might hire someone to make it happen so no one could suspect him. He checked himself.
What had he come to?
FIFTEEN
Karen Trindle sighed. She hated uncertainty and any hint of internal conflict.
The answer had seemed clear at first—Kendra Starin’s secrets should remain dead with her. But now she was second-guessing herself. Would Kendra have wanted Whitney to know that menopause hadn’t been the sole reason for her depression? Would the truth stop Whitney’s research on murder and facilitate her emotional acceptance of what happened to her mother?
Karen continued reviewing her progress notes on Whitney from her first session between sips of coffee, as she prepared for Whitney’s second appointment. She’d written preliminary treatment goals as: 1. Behavior therapy to desensitize Whitney’s anxiety about death. 2. Stress reduction for Whitney’s workaholic tendencies. 3. Grief resolution by working through standard stages.
Karen rested her chin on her arm and gazed out her office window. A long-hidden truth coming to light often brought emotional healing, but it could bring new pain, too. The weatherman’s voice spouted over the radio. “Forty percent chance of rain today.”
Her attention drifted toward the window. Not a sign of rain now in the clear sky. Precipitation hidden like Kendra’s secret. The truth was Kendra’s to tell her daughter, but she hadn’t. Neither would Karen. It was a hard call with Kendra dead, but it was right and ethical too. Her decision made, she snapped Whitney Barnes’s folder shut. Whitney was troubled enough, poor dear.
Karen always determined to do what she perceived to be right, come what may.
* * *
Whitney arrived at Karen’s office breathless but on time.
The pleasant gardenia scent from a potpourri dish reminded her of a favorite soap and candle boutique, and she inhaled deeply as she slipped into her seat.
On her first visit, she’d been too tense to notice how well-groomed her counselor was with her trim brown chin-length coiffure, every hair in place, and perfect French manicure. Whitney fluffed her bangs to the side with her fingertips and pushed back loose strands on the sides.
Karen opened the folder in her lap and asked, “How did your week go?”
“Better. Less stress, you’ll be happy to hear. I finished my murder research article. I know you suggested not doing it, but I felt compelled to, and I’m satisfied with the results. Also, I hired a freelance writer which will lighten my features load.”
“Excellent. I’m glad to hear you’re making healthy changes. Before proceeding, I think it will be helpful if I explain briefly the four levels of basic communication we use– first is cliché, second discussing facts, third is sharing feelings and opinions, then fourth transparency, where the most fruitful counseling can happen.”
They spent a few minutes discussing the illustrations, using the handout Karen offered.
“Whitney, based on these stages, do you think your tendency is to use open, honest communication?”
“I may guard myself in certain personal areas, but overall, I believe I’m direct and frank. I don’t shy away from confrontation, if it’s necessary. Although, I can’t say I like it or look for it.”
“Good, because the more transparent you are, the more effective our counseling can be. Now for your primary issue of grief. I’m not saying this is true, it’s only the second session, but perhaps you should consider that with the death of your mom you’ve been thrust into a vulnerable place in the world without her. Do you feel insecure—what I mean is, not ready for total independence? Is it possible you’re struggling with her death because you’re uncomfortable with sudden and total adult responsibility for yourself?”
Whitney’s head whipped up. “With all due respect, that’s one of the most ridiculous things I’ve ever heard. I can accept my mother’s death. What disturbs me is the circumstances. That’s very different. I thought I made that clear to you.” Anger laced her words. “You make me sound like a child afraid to mature.”
“No matter how old we are when we lose a parent, there’s a role transference that changes the way we perceive ourselves.”
“I find the idea of insecurity preposterous. Living alone in England two years while attending college required considerable emotional maturity.”
“Not necessarily.”
Whitney stiffened.
“College, even graduate school, is like an artificial world, a measure of freedom within limits, all core courses laid out with students knowing exactly what’s expected.”
“Interesting theory but I don’t buy it. At least it’s not true in my situation.”
“Just checking.” Karen waved her hand. “Sometimes being a people-helper, I have to bring up things that are hard to hear. Perhaps if you reflect on it, you’ll agree that you haven’t been nurturing yourself well enough. Often a mom reminds us of this important need.”
“That may be true. I just wish self-care wasn’t so hard to fit in with my work schedule.” Whitney forced a chuckle.
“You can meet work and life obligations without becoming too intense. Regular exercise is a marvelous, natural stress-reducer. Are you a member of a gym?”
Whitney massaged her temple. “Okay, I get it. I’ll try to play more. I agree about my need for better physical self-nurturing, although this will be more difficult than ever now.”
“Why?”
“Well…” Whitney paused to choose her words. “I’ve assumed some additional responsibility. Since I was here, my friend’s mom was killed. The police believe it may have been suicide, but Ellie knows her mom wouldn’t kill herself. I promised to help her investigate.”
Karen sank back in her chair. “My, my. Murder talk again. How can Ellie be sure?”
“She and her mom were extremely close. When her dad took off and left them nearly destitute several years ago, her mom started an office cleaning service that became very successful. She worked ten hours a day to put Ellie through college. Maybe you’ve heard of O’Connell Maintenance?”
“Of course. O’Connell has the contract for this building and many other downtown offices. I heard about Ellie’s mother’s death. I didn’t know you knew her. I’m very sorry, but the police can handle the investigation better than you or she. If you were healthier emotionally...”
Whitney set her jaw. “I have an inner strength you’re not aware of. Are you familiar with the principle, ‘I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me?’”
“Can’t say I’ve heard that. Nor do I agree. I believe it’s important to develop your own strength and be able to rely on yourself.”
Whitney shook her head. “Exactly what, if any, are your religious beliefs, if I may inquire? I suppose it’s acceptable for me to ask, because I imagine they impact your counseling views as well.”
Dr. Karen Trindle pulled herself upright in her chair. “I don’t typically discuss my personal spirituality, but since you ask, I believe a combination of several doctrines. We have more than one chance to make something of life. Do-overs, if you will. It’s within our power to perfect ourselves. Reincarnation is the name of this transformational process.”
“I’m familiar with the theory, although I disagree. Your spiritual beliefs are contrary to my faith in a loving, helpful, personal God who empowers us to do great things with His help. Actually, what bothers me most about Mom, even more than the way she died, is a spi
ritual issue. I wanted to know where you’re coming from before discussing it. I’m not sure you’ll be able to understand how important this is to me.”
“I’ll try.” Karen leaned forward again, apparently curious as to what Whitney would bring up.
“Growing up, my family went to church occasionally but God wasn’t a vital part of our life. I became a Christian at graduate school in England and longed to share my new relationship with Christ with Mom. We had several non-conclusive telephone conversations. She was a skeptic by nature. A week before she left for Ireland, I sent her a book called Surprised by Faith and a Bible. She’d e-mailed me that she’d read and enjoyed the book, and we’d discuss it when we were together.”
“And did you?”
“That’s as far as we got. She died before we could…” Whitney’s voice faltered. “I wonder if Mom ever discussed spiritual matters with you. If I knew for sure she’d become a Christian, well, it would make her death much easier for me.”
“Whitney, the content of her files cannot be divulged, but I will say as I recall, your mother didn’t mention religion, and my job is to help people deal with life here on Earth. I don’t bring up the subject of afterlife or reincarnation unless a client initiates it. I certainly don’t expect clients to agree with me and wouldn’t want to talk anyone out of their beliefs.”
Whitney looked at Karen with sympathy. “Perhaps you’d like the names of the books I gave my mom to read?”
Dr. Trindle’s eyes flashed for a second. “No, thank you anyway.” She stood and strode to her desk. “That’s all for today. For follow-up, try to remember to be even more open and honest about your feelings to yourself and others, and nurture yourself intentionally.”
“Maybe I am a bit guarded with people, but I pour out my feelings to God. I think that’s adequate.” The defensive response rolled off Whitney’s tongue.
Karen raised her eyebrows. “Next week, then?”
“Yes.” Whitney wasn’t sure why she was agreeing.
Her feet hit the pavement outside and a wave of tension rushed over her. If this counseling was helpful, it wasn’t in any way she could yet measure.
SIXTEEN
“Because I like your class with my customers, that’s why.” Jon Zechariah, the owner of Jonny Z’s restaurant, had approached Jillian at the computer work station where she was putting in her orders. “I’ll give you all the extra evening hours you want.”
A subtle fragrance of basil and oregano in tomato sauce floated through the kitchen as he urged Jillian to work four nights a week instead of three.
“I told my wife last night I need more women like you. I’ve tried male waiters—turnover’s too high. A good, mature woman like you, I hope you stay for years.”
Compliments were few these days, so Jillian appreciated his kind words and respect for her services. “Jonny, I’m sorry, but I want as much time at home with my teenagers as I can afford. I’ve got to stick with three nights. It’s tempting, though—I certainly could use the cash, and I’m flattered.”
Jillian talked while pressing her forefinger on the computer screen to select the entrees ordered by table four. She patted Jonny on the shoulder and hurried back out to check on her tables. He was very kind and had always been fair. It wasn’t his fault she needed to be home.
Her boss deserved a cheerful, competent employee. It took all Jillian’s strength to muster enthusiasm toward the end of her shift, like now, but she always managed to keep going. Tonight had been profitable. She counted eighty-five dollars in tips. That would cover some of the Christmas gifts she’d bought during her shopping splurge earlier that day between jobs. She’d gone overboard, and tomorrow she’d have buyer’s remorse and take some things back. She shook her head. All she wanted was to give her teens the kind of Christmas they were used to.
Her “ex,” Edward, was supposed to drop the children off at home around seven. She’d left a pizza in case they hadn’t had dinner, which was highly probable. She allowed the kids to eat in front of the TV when she wasn’t there. Fortunately, they didn’t mind lots of leftover pasta, salads, and pizza from the restaurant. She seldom had time to cook anymore.
Jillian checked her watch—9 p.m. The children would be getting ready for bed. When would she stop thinking of them as children? Probably never. They were her blood, her flesh, and sometimes, it seemed, her life. She hated that they had to tuck themselves in but, thank God, they had each other. She shuddered to think how much harder it must be for an only child in a divorce.
Forty-five minutes before closing, a middle-aged woman sauntered into Jonny Z’s Restaurant. The hostess seated her in Jillian’s section. Plenty of time for a single to have a complete dinner.
Jillian hurried over to take her drink order as the customer slid her sweater onto the chair back. Jillian realized she was acquainted with the woman and chatted briefly.
The customer declined wine or any other beverage with a wave of her arm. “I know it’s late, and I wouldn’t want you to stay overtime for me. What’s quick?”
“Any of tonight’s specials.” Jillian recited the list.
The woman rested her elbow on the table, cupping her chin in her palm. “Everything sounds great. It’s hard to decide.” She scanned the menu again. “I’ll try the chicken cordon bleu with a twice-baked potato. Are they good?”
“The best! Jonny Z’s is famous for its cream of carrot soup, too.”
“Bring me a cup, please. I’m starving, and the coffee smells wonderful. I’ll have some decaf with dinner.”
Jillian’s legs were starting to ache. She served her tables as fast as she could while maintaining a courteous flow of service. Finally, she was down to the last—the latecomer. She eyed the woman every time she passed. Fortunately, she ate quickly.
The woman put down her fork, and Jillian hurried over to remove her dinner plate. “Would you like dessert?” she asked with a manufactured a smile.
“No thanks, just the check.”
The woman paid but continued to linger at her table with an open book in front of her. Fortunately, Jillian didn’t have to wait for her to leave. Jonny and his wife lived in an apartment upstairs and always closed up.
Jillian popped into the kitchen to collect a take-out box of leftover chicken parmigiana and half a five-day-old pie Jonny had given her to take for the kids.
When she returned, the customer was putting on her coat. She and Jillian walked out the door together. Momentarily the woman stopped and pulled on gloves. Jillian wished she’d thought to bring hers. The weather had turned colder, and a fierce wind had picked up again. Both women bent their bodies against the gale. The customer yelled, “Can I get a ride to my car? I’m parked across the street, down a block.”
“Sure. Come with me. I’m right behind the building.”
The lot was deserted except for Jillian’s two-door Camry. She unlocked the driver-side, reached in, and flipped the unlock switch.
The woman raced around to the passenger door.
“Hop in, door’s open,” Jillian yelled to her. Her voice could hardly be heard above the howl of the wind.
Her customer slid in and slammed the door. “This is kind of you.”
“Sure, no problem.” Jillian twisted her torso and carefully set her Styrofoam box on the back seat before putting the key into the ignition. She didn’t need more spilled food in her vehicle. The kids provided enough with their fries and ketchup from McD’s.
The woman fiddled in her handbag. Jillian assumed she was hunting for car keys and ignored her. She put the car in gear. Direct me to your car.”
Silence.
Jillian glanced at the woman and did a double take. She’d pulled out an object of cold metal much larger than a key. Her fingers were molded around the handle of a handgun.
“What are you doing with that?” Jillian jerked the wheel sideways then back so fast she sent her leftover box careening to the floor. She jammed her foot on the brake.
The woman remain
ed totally still, smiling at Jillian. “Perhaps you already know why I have this.”
Jillian shouted, “Because you’re paranoid about safety?” This woman was freaking her out.
“It’s for you, not me. This is for the best.” She pointed the gun at Jillian’s head.
“Are you insane!” In that eerie instant, in the emotionless words, Jillian’s soul chilled. She realized this woman was going to kill her but had no idea why. Her thoughts jumbled. I won’t die without a fight.
Jillian let go of the wheel and thrust herself toward the woman as the gun silently went off.
* * *
The shooter used her gloved hands to position the gun in Jillian’s fingers, pressing them one by one gently around the metal. Next she arranged the weapon in Jillian’s lap, careful to keep from smearing any more blood than necessary. Small spots got on her gloves anyway. No worry, she’d burn them. It was a good night for a fire.
The woman’s sapphire bracelet caught for a moment in Jillian’s sweater. She swore but managed to pull it free quickly without leaving a snag. She never once looked above Jillian’s waist.
Minutes later, she was done and breathed a sigh of relief. She checked the parking lot with her eyes, saw no one, and walked to her car.
Settled behind the wheel, the woman who’d pulled the trigger congratulated herself. She’d known exactly how to manage this. Her success amazed her, especially since her only training came from mystery novels and TV shows like Murder She Wrote.
If only Angela Lansbury were still on the air. Murder is so easy.
SEVENTEEN
At 4:30 p.m. Betty whispered in an alcove outside the kitchen at Jonny Z’s where she sat folding white cloth napkins into triangles with Sandra. “Eleven was Jillian’s favorite number. I know that sounds strange. Funny the things you remember at a moment like this. She was a bit quirky but sweet.” Betty’s voice choked up.
“What are you talking about?” A busboy approached.