by Judith Rolfs
“Where to this time, Karen?” Karen allowed Peg to call her by her first name when they weren’t in the presence of clients.
“A tour of Paris and London in seven days. My two favorite cities.”
“Sounds exciting.”
“I hope so.” Karen shuffled the papers on her desk into a file folder. “I need a rest,” she paused. “I’ve been thinking…there’s another opening for the tour. Why don’t you take your vacation then? You’ll have little to do here during my absence.”
“I enjoy just relaxing at home. You know I’m a homebody.”
Karen shook her head. “Not completely. What about your frequent trips to Ireland?”
“Mostly for family events. I’m not much of a tourist.”
“You should expand your sites to see the rest of Europe. Ask my agent, Suzanne Oleston, about her great deal.”
“I admit the price is tempting.”
Karen’s head jerked up. “How do you know the cost?”
“Didn’t I hear you talking about it?”
Karen eyed Peg a moment. “Suzanne called me at home.”
“I must have seen it advertised somewhere.” Peg picked up her notepad and hurried back to her desk.
Karen gazed at her retreating form. I doubt it.
She twirled her pen, deep in thought. Obviously Peg had read the personal e-mails Suzanne had sent to Karen’s place of business. Was there too much familiarity in their employer/employee relationship? As office manager, Peg almost seemed indispensable. The fact she was unmarried and didn’t have to rush home to have dinner with a husband worked well with Karen’s erratic afternoon and evening schedules.
Karen knew Peg boasted to all the clients about Karen’s extraordinary counseling skills and almost idolized her. But she couldn’t have Peg reading personal e-mails, progress notes, and counseling summaries. The woman had to know that was unacceptable. Karen always stressed the importance of confidentiality and wouldn’t tolerate a breach—grounds for dismissal in a heartbeat. Her clients’ well-being depended on maintaining strict ethical practices.
Karen reassured herself. Peg hadn’t been a problem before. Surely this was an isolated incident. She hoped she was right. No harm was done. Still she’d keep a closer eye on Peg, all the same.
THIRTY-FIVE
Whitney was barely civil to Rich during the live broadcast of the next show.
Afterwards, he followed her down the hall.
“Ms. Barnes, wait, a question, please. “
Whitney stopped but didn’t turn her head.
“What was that message on my voice mail all about? And why haven’t you returned my calls?”
Whitney whirled around. “As if you need to ask. You know perfectly well.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t.” He appeared truly bewildered, which for a moment almost elicited her sympathy.
“Exactly how did Lena’s producer learn about my mom’s supposed accident?” Whitney’s throat burned as she asked the question.
“Whoa. I didn’t even know that she discovered these details. She does have her own researchers. She may have found out about your mother’s death from someone else. Who knows, maybe your friend Ellie?”
Whitney slowed her pace. “That never occurred to me. I just assumed...”
“I hope you’d think more highly of me than to believe I’d divulge your confidence. I would never discuss this with anyone else knowing how stressed you are about your Mom’s death.”
“Forgive me.” Whitney prided herself on seldom blushing, but her face grew hot.
Rich let out a loud sigh. “Well …” He seemed to ponder deeply. “You’re forgiven, but only if you’ll have dinner with me.”
“Agreed, as long as it’s early. I’ve been on the go since 6 a.m.”
They met at five at the hotel restaurant across from the studio. Whitney had preferred to drive over separately.
She sipped her hot green tea, cradling the cup. Its warmth and aroma relaxed her.
By unspoken agreement, they limited dinner conversation to small talk. “Your women’s segment touched off a trend. We’re doing a couple’s communication therapy experiment live, starting with the next show—three sessions: levels of communication, conflict resolution skills, and general tips,” Rich explained. “What do you think of the idea?”
“Sounds like a winner to me. Who came up with it?”
“Dr. Sarah Stevens and I planned it together. I like working with her.”
“I do, too.”
Rich reached over and patted the back of Whitney’s hand. His eyes connected with hers and spoke wordlessly.
“Sounds like you’re an expert in communication skills?”
“I don’t know enough. Dr. Stevens will handle the teaching part. There are a few more things I want to learn about verbal and emotional intimacy before I marry.”
“I thought you were a confirmed bachelor?”
“Part of the show’s image. I want a family someday, but I’m not willing to bite the dust for just anyone.” He looked steadily into her eyes. “First, I need to find my soul mate.”
Whitney’s cheeks warmed. She tried to hide her discomfort with a joke. “Bite the dust. What a horrid cliché for marriage.” Why did he fluster her like this? “My life’s too unsettled to think of anything other than getting through each day.”
“Really? I think I’m getting closer to marriage all the time.” His face was less than a foot from hers.
Whitney began to stammer about her delicious Philly cheese steak sandwich. Why, I’m as nervous as a thirteen-year-old school girl.
She was relieved when Rich looked at his watch. “I promised my sister I’d go to my niece’s concert tonight. I’d ask you to come with but I heard how tired you are. I’ve really enjoyed our dinner. May I call you now that we’re friends again?”
“Sure.”
“Next time pick up right away.”
“Sounds like a military order.”
“It is.”
Whitney laughed.
After he left, Whitney lingered a few minutes to relax. She liked Rich and his sense of humor. He’d made resolving their conflict easy. She was relieved he hadn’t broken her confidence, and amazingly he wasn’t angry with her for accusing him of indiscretion. What was not to like about this man? Articulate, good-looking, the interesting host of a TV show, but more than that. He seemed to have that elusive quality she called character. Had she really met a kind, gentle man? She felt lighter and more joyful than she had all day.
She whizzed home and clicked onto the computer to check her e-mail.
A message from Jordan popped up first. “Miss you. My return has been delayed a day. I’ll pick you up Friday at seven for dinner, okay? Take as long as you need to answer. I’m holding a razor to my wrist but don’t want you to feel any pressure to say yes.”
Should she see him again? Why not? She had no ties.
A bit confused about where this was going, Whitney e-mailed Jordan back. “Drop the razor. You’re insane. See you at seven.”
THIRTY-SIX
“Lord, does anyone ever get over the death of a child?” Blaine spoke aloud as she drove home.
She sensed his answer: Your separation from Cindy is only for a time. She’s happy with me, trust that. My care for her is even tenderer than yours. Get on with your life, my precious.
A sob echoed in the car. Lord, without your comfort I don’t know what I’d do.
Tonight she’d start a new poem using those exact words.
Maybe her poetry could help others endure their personal, painful ordeals.
Blaine slowed for a Jeep leaving a gas station and allowed the driver to get in front of her. The trucker behind her tooted twice, showing annoyance at her gesture of courtesy, even though the evening traffic was backed up at the light ahead. Obviously, he wasn’t going to get anywhere fast. She lifted her hand, waved, then smiled into her rear-view mirror. Incidents like this made her forty-five-minute morning commute mor
e challenging.
She ran her hand across her temples. A giant nutcracker seemed to be trying to crack her head. The painful ache made her eyes twitch. “Lord, I don’t need another migraine.” A line of her poetry instantly popped into her mind. She recited it aloud, “I walk, I breathe, but only death lives in me.”
Blaine pulled off the expressway at her exit, Larimer Road. She stopped for a traffic light and impatiently clicked her nails on the steering wheel, reviewing the pros and cons of her decision to go on the trip. She couldn’t put off her answer any longer. “Lord, help me.”
Ahead of her, directly in her line of vision, a billboard ad dominated by a silvery jet plane caught her attention. The caption underneath read, “Delta takes you where you want to go.” In that second Blaine knew what she would do. Life was meant to be enjoyed. She’d forgotten that somewhere in the course of a difficult marriage and caring for her sick child.
A change of scenery could be her turning point. She threw her head back against the neck rest allowing its smooth firmness to cradle her head. God, with your help I’m going to make a new life for myself. I have a great part-time job and now this wonderful travel opportunity. I can take time off from teaching because I no longer have to save all my vacation days to be at the hospital with Cindy. Whitney won’t mind that I go. I’ll write my next articles before I leave.
Blaine resolved to stop letting the past dominate the present and destroy her future. As soon as she’d made her decision, the pressure and pain in her head lifted as if an adrenaline surge healed her. A shadow of her old carefree spirit revived. What was the word? Moxie, chutzpah—that was what she had. She’d almost forgotten what it was like.
As for the practicalities, she could afford the trip but not a new wardrobe. What would she wear? Tonight she’d check her closet and repair the hem on her old, but favorite, pale green pants suit to wear on the plane. Did people still travel in suits? She thought not, but she’d ask Suzanne.
Tonight poetry about death would end.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Dusk was deepening when Lily rang the doorbell to Blaine’s condo.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Blaine. May I please use your phone? Thankfully, I remembered you lived on this street. I can’t believe this horrid timing. I have a flat tire, and my cell phone battery is totally dead.”
“Of course. What bad luck, c’mon in.”
Lily strolled through the foyer. “What smells so good?”
“Stuffed green peppers baking in the oven.”
“Yum. I’m sorry to interrupt your dinnertime.”
“No problem. They won’t be ready for another twenty minutes. My chef, Stouffer, insists on starting with frozen food. C’mon in the kitchen.” Blaine grabbed her phone off the counter and extended it to her guest.
Lily took the iPhone and punched in a number. She spoke into the phone loudly, giving directions to her location. Meanwhile, Blaine fussed around the kitchen assembling ingredients for a salad.
Lily handed the phone back. “It’s been awhile since I’ve seen you, Blaine. How have you been?”
“Actually, after dinner I’m packing for a trip to Europe.” Blaine smiled as she said the words. “Come sit in the living room until your service person arrives.”
“You’re too kind. How wonderful you’re getting away.” Lily dropped onto the living room couch, her posture straight as the edge of the tiny address book she pulled from her purse. “I’m happy for you, forgive me if my enthusiasm doesn’t show—I’m annoyed this happened to me.”
“How about a cup of coffee? I’m brewing a fresh pot.” Whatever Blaine had been through, she still had her manners.
“Thanks. I’d like that.” Lily smiled for the first time.
Blaine headed toward the kitchen.
* * *
Lily stood then sat back down, hesitating. Should she go through with her plan? Was this a safe enough setting? She rose and followed Blaine. The kitchen would be a good room, less messy.
Lily slipped her black gloves on and opened her handbag, an envelope style with a flap in front.
Blaine opened the cupboard over the sink as her Irish tenor CD began a ballad called “The Journey” in the background. “I’m getting in a European mood with some library CD’s. Do you recognize this song?”
Lily didn’t answer. Blaine rummaged in the open cabinet. She turned around as Lily pulled her braceleted hand from her handbag and clutched the handgun.
A look of horror froze on Blaine’s face. She screamed, “Why?” It would be her last conscious word. Lily took careful aim and fired at the left side of Blaine’s head. The only sound was the thud of Blaine’s head falling against the corner of the counter.
Lily had no doubt Blaine was dead. The bullet entered the skull directly and silently. Silencers were a wonderful invention.
Blaine’s body shriveled into a heap on the tile floor as blood splattered everywhere. It helped to be confident of one’s shooting ability at such a moment. She chose not to look at the corpse.
Lily moved cautiously, avoiding the blood.
She scurried to the master bedroom and searched the dresser drawers still wearing her gloves. She found Blaine’s costume jewelry glittering in a black velvet tray. She opened her handbag and filled it.
On her way back down the hall, Lily looked into the second bedroom. A child’s desk and a small plastic chair sat in the corner, and dolls were stacked on the empty twin bed.
She avoided looking into the kitchen on her way to the front door. Excellent planning. Lily, you thought of everything. She praised herself on the ride home.
Her only regret was giving that journalist Whitney Barnes something more to write about.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Clouds formed a mosaic of jagged gray streaks waiting to be cracked by lightning as Louise Malone peeked out the window from her unit across from Blaine Cartier’s. In a large development like this, people mostly kept to themselves, but she liked keeping an eye on what went on.
She’d finally had her root canal procedure that morning. A friend from work had driven her home on her lunch break because the oral surgeon had insisted Louise couldn’t drive. Louise would owe her big for that.
When Louise had returned, she’d stumbled into her bedroom and dropped onto the bed. It was all she could do. Not that the procedure had been that bad, but coupled with the anxiety and sleeplessness of the last two nights anticipating it, she was beat.
She’d awakened from her afternoon nap around six. Yawning widely, she raised the shade in her bedroom facing the street. A nicely dressed woman was getting into a silver gray car parked in Blaine’s driveway.
It pleased her that Blaine had company. She didn’t like to think of the poor woman being alone.
The manager of the condominiums had told Louise that Blaine Cartier’s daughter had recently died and her husband had left her for another woman not long before that. Some women had more than their share of a tough life.
One of these days she would get over to visit and bring the poor woman a loaf of her homemade banana bread. Louise was often praised by fellow workers for having an overly sensitive heart.
Besides, she recognized Blaine’s last name was the same as a manufacturing business in the industrial park and wondered if she were related. If so, why would Blaine live here in these cheap condos instead of a lovely home? There must be a story there, and Louise always liked a good story.
Remembering her tooth, she rubbed her swollen jaw. The tooth pain for the past six months had been almost enough to drive her back to drinking. It took her that long to get the courage up to go to the dentist. Now that it would be over, she couldn’t wait to get back to being her pain-free self.
She didn’t need to hear about anybody else’s troubles right now. This tooth had given her enough. Besides, Blaine probably had plenty of company, like this lady visitor, but with Louise’s overtime at work, she couldn’t know for sure.
Louise patted her Alcoholics Anonym
ous butterfly pin. She was proud of her three-month sobriety. She’d better not push herself to do anything the rest of the day.
In the kitchen she made herself some lukewarm tea, not trusting anything hot or cold yet. Then she flopped on her sofa, flicked on one of her favorite videos from her small home collection—The Bishop’s Wife—and opened a book of mystery stories she’d borrowed from the library for today.
She may as well enjoy the rest of this day off as much as she could.
* * *
Chief Bolan unfolded himself from his car. He rarely smiled, thinking this helped him maintain a mystique of cold professionalism. He rarely, if ever, made small talk and rather liked the intimidating aura his six-foot height produced.
Because he’d refused to climb over people leapfrog style to advance his career, he missed out on heading a big city police force. His idea of justice was simplistic—thorough, relentless pursuit of the truth, fact by fact, led to the capture of criminals. Then he held his breath for the law to convict.
Five minutes after he arrived at the scene of the shooting, Chief Bolan knew Blaine Cartier had committed suicide or her murderer was one smooth operator. He found no evidence of anything forced open, no struggle anywhere. Blaine had either killed herself or opened her door to let in someone she knew. His victim wasn’t reported missing until she didn’t show up for her class at night and hadn’t called in an excuse.
Chief Bolan bent over her body and ignored his trembling hands. His wife was about Blaine’s age. He pulled out his handkerchief to blow his nose.
“Harold,” the Chief ordered his deputy, “get me a list of Blaine Cartier’s immediate family and friends, then business acquaintances.”
An hour later Chief Bolan was at his desk, fingers drumming, planning the statement he would give the waiting reporters.
He’d promised the new gal at the Courier, Whitney Barnes, five minutes. Two more newspaper people had shown up too.