by Judith Rolfs
Sandra turned toward him. “Didn’t you hear?”
“What?” he asked nonchalantly.
“The manager found Jillian Langley’s dead body in her car in the parking lot at five this morning when the produce truck came to deliver. I should say what was left of her. The gun was in her lap. Suicide.”
The busboy clapped his hand over his mouth. “How awful. What do you suppose made her do it?” he asked.
“Who knows? Maybe her divorce finally got to her. No man is worth it—that’s what I say. Poor baby, I just don’t get how she could leave her kids.” Sandra pulled a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose.
“Jillian seemed in good spirits last night,” the busboy offered before resuming his job.
Betty shook her head. “You never can tell about people. I hear that just before the act of suicide a joyful peace closes over you.”
“Who knows what her life was like?” Sandra’s tone was sympathetic. She stood and shoved her tissue into a plastic garbage can under the counter. “You’d think she could have kept going for her kids at least.” She scrubbed her hands at the sink before returning to her folding.
Betty brightened visibly. “The last person to see her alive must have been that lady customer Jonny said she walked out with. Maybe she’d know why Jillian was so upset.”
“Who was she?” Sandra was intrigued.
“Don’t know her name. You must have glimpsed her before you left. Remember the diner with the pretty sapphire bracelet I admired. I never saw her in here before. It seemed like Jillian knew her, but I could be wrong. If she did, somebody should call the lady and tell her what happened.”
“They did seem kinda chummy. There’s no way to track the woman down. Jonny checked through last night’s deposit before it went to the bank today. No lady customer’s signature on a credit card slip. Woman musta paid with cash.” Sandra straightened her apron.
“No matter. If she’s a friend, she’ll hear the news on TV.”
“It’ll be in the papers, I bet, although Jonny’s trying to keep it quiet. A shooting’s not good for business, he says.” Sandra began to stack the napkins on a tray.
“Didn’t nobody notice Jillian didn’t go home last night?” Betty asked.
“Like who? Her kids would be asleep. They wouldn’t look for her until morning.”
Betty nodded. “Yeah, I suppose.”
“What a sight for the manager to see first thing!” Sandra massaged her neck.
“That’s why he went upstairs sick. We’re running on our own.”
“I’m not in great shape myself.” She looked up. “Gotta go. Somebody just sat in my section.” Sandra stuck her order pad in her apron belt and trudged out with two waters on a tray.
Betty called after her, “I wish I’d gotten to know Jillian better. I’m asking off for her funeral.”
* * *
The day after the body was found, the Cortland Courier carried a detailed article on Jillian Langley’s death. Pictures of her automobile were accompanied by shots of the entrance to Jonny Z’s Restaurant.
Whitney personally edited the front-page story.
She scarcely slept the entire night afterwards. Another death. How could this be happening in Cortland City?
EIGHTEEN
Another drizzly, cold November afternoon—the kind that often followed an unusually warm October. A feathery breeze tickled Dr. Trindle’s cheeks as she hastened back to work after lunch.
Karen charged into her office and stopped, surprised then angry. Why was her office manager, Peg Wentworth, sitting at her desk with her head bent over the contents of a file?
“What are you doing?” Karen demanded.
“You’re back early.” Peg immediately closed the file she’d been reading and shut the desk drawer. “I’m organizing,” she explained. “The label came off this folder. I put a new one on and had to look inside to see whose it was.” Peg’s demeanor exuded the innocence of a child. She rose. “You know me, always looking for ways to improve procedures. I’m caught up with my work and thought I’d straighten your pens and papers in the drawer and check that your files were in perfect order. Isn’t that okay?”
“Not in my absence and not at my desk.” Karen’s tone made her point. “I prefer not to see you sitting there again.”
Peg picked up a dust cloth and sailed past Karen, head down. “I’m sorry. I thought you’d be pleased.” She closed the door behind her.
Karen composed herself. Perhaps she’d been harsh, but in her position she needed to be cautious. Peg obviously had just been perusing a file. She had expressed a desire to become a counselor. She’d have another talk with Peg later after she dealt with her anger. Karen made an effort to focus on her next client.
Caffeine via two cups of coffee surged through her veins. She’d seen three clients that morning—two women and one man coincidentally all had problems with rebellious children. Her p.m. load ran non-stop. A mid-afternoon break would be nice. Not a chance.
Until catching Peg behind her desk, this had been an ordinary day, if anything could be considered routine about the counseling profession. She put the incident out of her mind, eased onto the seat in her swivel chair, and picked up her notepad.
Karen opened the file for her next client, a new one. A male patient—presenting problem unknown.
She called Peg in. “Why is there no last name or info on the presenting problem noted on this file?”
Peg’s face reddened. “Believe me, I tried. He refused to give me anything except his first name. Said his insurance wouldn’t be used. He’d pay cash. He wants complete anonymity.”
Karen sighed. She wasn’t in the mood for a difficult client.
Five minutes later, a man in a midnight blue suit and crisp shirt with a diamond-patterned navy tie charged in on black wing tips. He plopped onto the client chair closest to Karen and settled manicured fingers on the arms.
He began chattering the minute Karen picked up her pen, his words curt and demanding. “Doctor Trindle, I need help for personal issues. I’m confident you can provide it.”
“I’ll certainly try.” He sounded like a consumer, shopping for new computer software as if to say, “I’ll tell you my needs. Tell me what to do and I’ll be all set.” She suppressed a sigh. With his attitude, the next hour should be challenging.
At least she’d have no trouble drawing him out. Karen looked at the nearly blank intake form Peg had set on her desk. First name, Edward. “Let’s start with your most pressing concern.”
“I understand you saw my wife, Jillian, for several counseling sessions before she ended her life.”
Karen gripped her pen tightly. Bricks tumbling from the ceiling couldn’t have shocked her more. “Jillian Langley? The woman whose death is in the news?”
“Correct.”
If this man had come to find out what his former wife and she had discussed in the divorce group, he was out of luck. “I’m sorry your relationship ended badly.” Karen evaded any mention of her counseling. Instead she commented, “Your marriage has been over for some time?”
Edward Langley nodded. “Yes, but there are some things, I mean, certain facts I wish she knew before taking this drastic action. Maybe the outcome would have been different…” He paused, pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped his face. Whatever he wanted to say, he was obviously having difficulty getting it out.
“Like?”
Edward rubbed his hands together then finally blurted out, “Nobody but you will ever know this, but I was having second thoughts about the divorce, even considering leaving my new wife, Tara, and returning to Jillian.”
Karen dropped her notepad and bent to retrieve it, glad to lower her head so Edward couldn’t see her expression. It frosted her that this man thought he could jump in and out of marriage as if crossing a bridge back and forth. Didn’t he realize he’d destroyed the trust that had linked them together? “Why are you telling me this?”
“Jillian’s dead and I
can’t stand the guilt.” Edward Langley dropped his head in his hands and started to cry. After a few moments, he groped in his pocket again for the handkerchief to wipe his tears.
Karen sat stunned. Not much surprised her, but she was amazed at how ravished this man was when he let his guard down. “I’m sorry for you, Mr. Langley. Hopefully in time, with adequate personal counseling, you’ll feel less remorse.”
“I hope you’re right.” He struggled to pull himself together. When he did, his manner became once again cold and businesslike. He pulled out a smart phone. “Let’s set up a series of appointments.”
Karen leaned back in her chair as a wave of disgust washed over her. Memories of Jillian’s painful sharing during Karen’s divorce recovery support group overwhelmed her. Edward had stirred anger inside her. She could taste bile forming in her stomach. The best part of Jillian, the caring, feeling person, died before her body. Karen couldn’t comfort Edward Langley, because he was the one who’d killed Jillian emotionally. She was certain of that.
“I think it’s best I refer you to my colleague, Dr. Sarah Stevens, since I worked with your wife.”
Edward Langley’s complexion turned gray. “Why?”
“I can’t counsel you without feeling a conflict of interest. Even if Jillian is dead, there is a loyalty issue I wish to respect.” Dr. Trindle stood.
He sputtered, “But I should think your prior contact with my wife would be helpful.”
Quite likely it had never occurred to Edward that Karen might refuse.
She shook her head. “My sympathy for your ex-wife would make helping you too difficult. Also I’m concerned regarding professional confidentiality that I might divulge something I shouldn’t. Surely you can understand this.”
“No, I don’t.” Edward Langley popped out of his chair then sat back down as his legs wobbled. “I’m having difficulty comprehending anything. How did life get so complicated and painful?”
Karen edged toward the door. “Choices have consequences.” She spoke quietly but with authority.
“But you have to do something. I’m having trouble sleeping since the divorce. My leadership at the firm is being questioned. Every day my thoughts have been getting more disconnected instead of clearer. And now Jillian’s dead!” He jabbed his finger in her direction. “And you, a counselor from whom I expect help, refuse to assist me.”
To Karen he sounded pitiful instead of persuasive. “I’m sorry, Mr. Langley.” In her heart she wasn’t sorry, but her professionalism kicked in. Perhaps Sarah Stevens could help him. At least she could let him vent. What else could anyone do for a man who deserved a lifetime of regret?
Karen wrote up a referral for Edward to Sarah. He acquiesced and accepted Dr. Sarah Stevens’s business card before stomping out the door.
She snapped his file shut and watched him take his leave. If she were capable of killing from anger, this man’s life would be in danger.
Why do people hurt each other like this?
NINETEEN
Whitney’s least favorite way to wake up was to a ringing phone. Her recorder clicked on. Ellie’s voice followed. The poor girl’s nights had to be rough. Besides, Whitney had told her to call any time. It was the least she could do.
“Are you there? Pick up please. I desperately need to talk. Call me later, I—”
Whitney lifted the receiver. “I’m here.”
“You sound half awake, I’m sorry. Did I get you out of bed?”
“No problem. Saturday is usually my day to sleep in, but I need to get up for a special event. What’s up?”
“I’ve been up since four. I read about Jillian Langley’s death in the paper. I’m shaking all over. I mean, it reminds me so much of mom’s—a pretty woman around the same age...”
“It shocked me, too. I didn’t know her. Did you?” Whitney rested the phone in the crook of her neck and started pulling clothes from her closet.
“No, but wait until you hear this.” Ellie’s words tumbled with emotion and maybe the effect of a few cups of coffee. “I went to Jillian Langley’s daughter’s Facebook page to offer my sympathy, even though I didn’t know the family. Her daughter posted the same thoughts I had about my mom. ‘Mom would never have killed herself. She knew how much we needed her.’”
“Interesting.”
“Sure is. Whitney,” Ellie paused. “I have a hunch the two deaths are connected. I already called Police Chief Bolan and told him that. What’s your opinion?”
“I’d need to know more, Ellie. In the meantime, please try to calm yourself. I’m concerned about how you’re doing.”
“I met with Dr. Sarah Stevens, a counselor who attends my church, and she’s helping me put things in perspective. I thought I was doing better until I read this.”
“Why don’t you go back to sleep now?”
“I don’t think I can. Jillian and my mom’s deaths are all I can think about.”
“The police will check her death out.” Whitney paused. “And I’ll do a little sleuthing on my own. I’m going to an art show at ten sponsored by Ameribank. Jillian’s art agent should be there. I’ll get her assessment on what was up with Jillian. Maybe she’d been physically ill or dealing with depression. Let’s not jump to any conclusions about Jillian being murdered. I’ll call you later to tell you what I find out. Now get some rest.”
“I want to help.”
“Of course, but promise me you’ll go back to bed now.”
Ellie’s voice flattened. “Okay, keep me posted.”
“Sure.”
Thirty minutes later Whitney headed out the door into a day that was a perfect ten for fall. She aimed her car toward the Civic Center where the Cortland City Arts Festival was underway. Lemon sun splashed brilliant streaks on the glass buildings that housed the city complex.
Cortland City’s largest bank was most likely sponsoring the downtown charity fundraiser event to beef up its image. Whitney knew from advertising money spent at the Courier that competition in banking had become fierce.
Even with bank sponsorship, tickets to the festival were twenty dollars each. Attending such occasions was a freebie fringe benefit for news correspondents. She proudly showed her press badge to the white-haired female security guard and strolled through the entrance. Whitney picked up a program from the kiosk at the door with all the artists’ names and works. She skimmed it, noting artists came from all over the state to exhibit at this show.
Good. Jillian Langley’s works, represented by agent Carla Madsen, were on display. Whitney had a double agenda. Report on the community event and try to find out what Jillian’s agent knew of her mental state before her tragic death. Whitney, as well as Ellie, was haunted by the question, “Did Jillian actually kill herself or had someone wanted to make it look like she did?”
Whitney shivered. The exhibit halls were chilly. She was glad she’d worn her brown tweed pants suit.
The central hall focused on prominent artists, whose work filled the large room. The most famous had private gallery showings in smaller rooms shooting off the main room.
Would Jillian’s work be worth more now that she was dead? Might this be a catapult to fame? Did her husband, Edward Langley, have a right to posthumous income or would it go to her children? Divorce could be so complicated.
The artists weren’t listed alphabetically. Whitney meandered past the paintings, slowly soaking in the sensory richness of colors and shapes. After half an hour she discovered Exhibit K in the far hall with Jillian Langley’s work. A sign, “Refreshments served in the Whitehall Meeting Room during Artist’s Reception,” caught her attention, especially the bottom line, “Come meet the artists and their agents.” It had started twenty minutes ago.
Whitney headed down a gray-carpeted hall toward the Whitehall Room. Ceiling to floor windows brightened the room. About a dozen artists and agents milled among maybe forty people.
Whitney didn’t recognize any artists, but several agents had identification displayed. At o
ne of several small tables against the wall, a placard read, “Carla Madsen, Art Agent.”
Whitney wandered over. A gaunt woman wearing a chic black floor-length dress stood behind the table. Long strands of chestnut brown hair dropped halfway to her waist. Her scarred complexion had seen its share of acne, but brilliant green eyes more than made up for the facial imperfections. A lime green velour jacket imprinted with black roses hung on the chair. How did Carla keep that slim-as-a-stovepipe figure? By contrast, the obese gentleman she conversed with wore a sweat suit and tennis shoes.
The man called Carla by name, confirming her identity as he said goodbye and sauntered off. Whitney walked up and introduced herself, flashing her press badge. “I’d very much like to interview you for our local paper, Ms. Madsen.”
“It would be my pleasure.” Carla almost purred. “Let’s go to a quiet spot where we won’t be disturbed.” She grabbed her water bottle and led Whitney to a corner of the room with folding chairs set along the wall.
Carla settled herself as Whitney pulled out her notepad. “Shall we start with how you got started in the profession?”
“Goodness, we’re talking decades ago.” Carla wet her lips and recounted her childhood interest in art. “It brought me to the Art Institute in Chicago.”
“I believe our readers would enjoy your comments on the changes in European and American art over the years.”
Carla’s lids fluttered as she obliged. “I’ve traveled to Europe every summer for years, which is how I’ve acquired my art instincts.” She summarized the different styles.
Whitney studied Carla while she spoke, occasionally jotting down a note. She flitted away almost twenty minutes, quizzing this articulate and interesting woman, gleaning facts for her newspaper article. Who didn’t like to talk about herself and give her opinions? Whitney advanced the conversation to her personal agenda.
“Let’s move on to clients you’ve represented, past and present. Quite a diverse group of talented artists. I noticed one of them was Jillian Langley. Her obituary was in our paper—a tragic death. Can you comment on her work?”