Never Tomorrow

by Judith Rolfs

  Larry’s blood chilled. What was his wife up to?

  * * *

  Outside, the Chief stopped walking briefly to glare at Whitney. “Not one word of this in the paper. Forget what you heard.”

  “No problem, Chief. Be seeing you.” Whitney headed for her car but had no intention of forgetting.

  She wanted to talk with Althea woman-to-woman as soon as possible. Her best chance was to intercept Althea at the train station tonight before she saw Larry and coordinated their alibi. Hopefully, Larry wouldn’t message her first.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  After work Whitney headed straight to the train depot. She left her Honda engine running in the parking lot, jumped out, and ran halfway down the pitted concrete walk. The ticket seller’s window was closed, but a note on the door indicated train schedules were available at the drug store.

  At the train station she checked the parking lot for a silver BMW to no avail. She hurried back to her car and drove to Robin’s Drugs, circling the block three times before finding a parking space.

  She might have known the times for public transportation to the city, except she never road the train downtown, preferring to drive. She checked her watch—6:30.

  A placard on the drug store announced, “The oldest store in Cortland City.” She picked up a schedule and studied it—6:45 and 8:30 p.m. She’d check the two evening arrivals.

  A thin elderly man in a gray jacket glanced her way as she perused the schedule next to him. He offered gruffly, “Train’s due in fifteen minutes. It won’t be late. Never is.”

  “Thanks.”

  Whitney had skipped lunch. Her blood sugar level had to be near zero. She’d be shaking soon. Wendy’s was less than five minutes away. Just enough time.

  She wound through the drive-through lane behind a car that must have been placing orders for their whole neighborhood. Her car was sandwiched between it and two cars to her rear. This had been a bad idea, but there was no way to get out of line. She looked at the digital clock on the dash with trepidation. Five minutes passed—then six.

  Sweat coated her underarms. Finally, her turn came at the speaker. “A sour cream and chive potato and a side salad, but only if they’re ready. I’m in a hurry. Thanks.”

  Five minutes until train time. A young girl with a black microphone hanging inches from her mouth handed her a white bag.

  Whitney thrust a five-dollar bill through the window. “Keep the change.” How often do fast food workers get tipped?

  Whitney set the salad on the seat next to her while she pulled out, steering with her left hand. At the first light Whitney flipped open the plastic lid and picked at the dry lettuce and carrots.

  At the train station she found a parking space with a good view, opened her steamy potato and slathered sour cream on it. She ate like this so seldom that her conscience didn’t even meow.

  The crossing bells clanged, and she shoved the remains of the potato into the bag. The Silver Bullet blazed down the tracks, resembling a big steel caterpillar as it slowed to a halt—on time to the minute. She opened her car door and hurried down the walk.

  The train doors slid open and a crush of men and women emerged, thronging en masse—faces forward—heads down, toward their cars. Whitney checked every face for the image she’d seen on Larry’s desk.

  Althea, where are you?

  No luck. Whitney retreated to her car, finished her salad, and returned to the office.

  She was back to meet the next train at 8:30. Finding Althea had seemed easy until she entered this parade of people. She studied the blur of coats and scarves departing the train for the last link of the journey home. Boots and shoes scraped the gravel noisily. A whistle blast sounded as the train prepared to bolt.

  Whitney searched face after face. The image of the picture on Larry’s desk started to fade quickly in her mind.

  A young woman emerged wearing a leather mini skirt topped by a brown leather jacket. Her blonde bangs escaped from a black beret. Larry’s wife? The gal headed toward the parking lot, and Whitney followed.

  Drawing closer, Whitney soon realized this woman with the prominent nose and square jaw wasn’t Althea. She returned to her viewing perch on a slight incline about ten feet from the station.

  The dwindling crowd continued past her in a wave. Behind her the train whooshed away.

  Whitney was about to give up when she noted a nicely dressed woman at the far end of the platform waving goodbye to another woman heading toward her car. The woman wore high heels and was hatless in a long, black coat. A red silk scarf flowed around her shoulders. Her long blonde hair had been pulled back into a ponytail. Whitney hurried over.

  The woman stopped beside a shiny silver BMW gleaming in the streetlight. Bingo. There could be no mistake. Althea!

  Whitney ran over and reached her as she unlocked her car door. “Excuse me, Ms. Cartier? I need to talk to you.”

  “Yeah? Who are you?” They were facing each other now.

  “Whitney Barnes, editor of the Courier.”

  “What do you want with me?” she hissed.

  “The former Mrs. Cartier, Blaine, was killed recently.”

  “Yeah, like I didn’t know?”

  “Yeah” must be her favorite word. Whitney marveled at her face, clear like unblemished cement. Althea didn’t even blink at Blaine’s name. Nice control. Whitney winced.

  “I’m making some inquiries for my paper...”

  “Yeah, well excuse me. I wouldn’t wish dying on her, or anybody, but I’m not upset over her death if that’s what you’re expecting me to say. I mean, too bad for her and all, but this will make things a lot easier for Larry and me.” Althea’s tone softened slightly. “All the same I hate for anybody that young to die. Hey, I’m freezing out here—I gotta go.”

  Althea got into her car and started it. She rolled her window down and poked her head out. “I didn’t mean to sound so hard.”

  Fake sympathy if she killed Blaine, but maybe she really was compassionate. “May I ask you one more thing? Were Blaine and Larry on good terms?”

  “I suppose as good as could be. Why?”

  “Just wondered.” Now for the clincher. “By the way, where were you and Larry between five to ten p.m. the night Blaine died?” Whitney slipped the question in as if it weren’t the most important one of all.

  “I resent these questions. I have no intention of discussing my life with you.” Although her tone bristled with finality, fortunately Althea was a talkaholic. “Don’t try to make my husband out as having anything to do with this. They had their usual quarrels—mostly over money because that woman was never satisfied—but my husband’s not a murderer.”

  “I wasn’t insinuating he was.” Whitney bit her lip. Actually it’s you I was wondering about.

  Althea continued her protest. “He wouldn’t hurt anybody, that’s for sure.”

  “I’d like to believe that, so why won’t you say where he and you were that night?”

  “I went shopping. Why am I even talking to you?” Yet she made no move to drive off. Did she have her own doubts about her husband?

  “And Larry was home alone?”

  “Probably watching TV, as usual.”

  “What show was on when you got back?”

  “I don’t remember—wait, a football game, that’s what it was.”

  “What time did you return?”

  “Around ten, I think.”

  So he didn’t have an alibi, and neither did she.

  “Althea, I think you should know I saw Larry before I came here. He says you both were home all night. One or both of you needs a truth check.”

  Althea’s eyes turned to ice. “I’m not saying another word.” She gunned the motor and backed up.

  “I suggest you talk to a lawyer. Larry, too.” Whitney yelled at Althea’s disappearing car.

  Guilt was written all over that woman’s face. Whitney intended to find out more.

  FORTY-NINE

  At eight-th
irty the buzzer rang in Dr. Karen Trindle’s downtown apartment in Wionna Towers, one of the few high-rise buildings in Cortland City.

  Karen was watering the last of her houseplants. She rarely entertained visitors here and never answered the door to strangers. A solicitor may have slipped in, unlikely as that was. She peered through her security eyehole.

  Chief Bolan’s face came into view as she peeked through. Why was he here? She hid her shock well, sweeping the door open. She displayed flawless grace in her invitation to come in.

  “Excuse my rubber gloves.” Karen pointed toward the blue plastic plant pitcher on the foyer table. “My plant babies are thirsty.”

  “Sorry to bother you. I have a couple of questions.”

  “About?”

  “Blaine Cartier, a member of one of your divorce therapy groups, I understand from a notation in her checkbook for a check written out to you. We’re investigating the circumstances of her death.”

  Karen shrugged. “I don’t know how I can help.”

  The Chief’s cell phone rang as he crossed the threshold. He held up his left hand in a give-me-a-minute gesture.

  “If you don’t mind— I’m almost finished....” Karen turned and walked over to a white iron fern stand in the foyer, plucked some dead leaves from an otherwise flourishing mound of green fronds, and flicked them into a small can. She poured a draught of water around the plant and set the watering pitcher back on its tray.

  Chief Bolan barked, “What’s that?” He paused a moment, apparently listening before concluding. “No, I’m close to tying things up. I’ll get back to you tomorrow.” He snapped an order and flipped his phone shut. “Excuse the interruption, Dr. Trindle.”

  Karen pulled off her gloves, dropped them onto the tray, and gave him her full attention. “Let’s go into the living room, although I must say I don’t relish talking about poor Blaine.”

  Chief Bolan took a seat on the sofa and unzipped his jacket. He glanced around the room. “This is fancy as a furniture showroom or a model home. What smells so nice?”

  Why was he wasting both their time with small talk? Karen strained to be cordial. “Probably the lavender air freshener, my grandmother’s favorite scent. Now, Chief, before you begin, remember I have confidential limitations on what I can and can’t discuss about a client, even if she did only attend a support group. Not that I know much. Anyway. I need to honor that.”

  “Sessions were two hours, correct?” He appeared to ignore her reservations.

  “Yes, this particular group was.”

  “Who else was in the group?”

  “I can’t discuss that.”

  The Chief didn’t seem surprised, but apparently he hoped she’d tell. “I imagine a lot can be covered in that length of time. Especially since it’s a small group, correct? About six to eight, right?”

  “Usually.”

  “What can you tell me about your interaction with this woman?”

  “I can’t discuss the nature of anything she disclosed. However, I recall she only attended once after the brief preliminary screening session with me to see if the group would be appropriate for her.”

  “Are you sure? I thought she came more. There were several appointments with you penciled in Ms. Cartier’s address book.”

  “She may have started with the best of intentions but didn’t follow through. That isn’t uncommon. As I recall, she was a rather distraught woman. I suppose I can say that. It may have been too soon for her to begin group work.”

  “Was there anyone from the group who seemed to have a conflict with Ms. Cartier the one time she was there— any enmity, jealousy that you observed? Perhaps she didn’t return because she felt threatened in some way.”

  “Nothing that I noticed.” Karen thought briefly of Peg, her assistant who checked in the group members, handled their paperwork, and occasionally made envious comments about attractive or wealthy clients. Definitely some negative vibes there, but nothing worth mentioning. Peg was just being Peg.

  “Without divulging any counseling confidence, did Blaine reveal any motive someone might have for wanting her dead?”

  “Not within our group.”

  “I didn’t limit my question. Was there anyone she may have talked to outside the group?”

  “At the office, only my receptionist, Peg. She gets people settled in when they arrive.” Karen shifted in her chair. “I understand Blaine’s divorce proceedings were bitter. She made that public knowledge, so I’m not violating confidence. I would suggest you interrogate her husband. I wouldn’t say this, except it’s well-known—the man was heartless. Their daughter, poor Cindy, died six months after the divorce became final. Such a terrible time for Blaine, longing for his love and knowing she’d never have it again.”

  “We’re exploring every possibility, of course.”

  Karen pulled a tissue from a box on the table and blew her nose.

  Chief Bolan leaned forward, his eyes never leaving her face. “According to her pastor, Blaine had been coping much better in recent weeks.”

  “Really?”

  “Do you think her evening with you may have helped?”

  “I doubt one session was enough. Oh, perhaps on the surface, but there was a tremendous amount of unresolved pain and….” Karen paused and stared out the window before continuing. “Chief Bolan, it’s just a thought, but could this possibly have been suicide? There have been other recent cases.”

  “People don’t usually shoot themselves in the side of the head, although it’s not impossible.”

  “I read of a case like that.”

  Chief Bolan gave Karen a sideways look. “Do you read a lot about murder?”

  “Don’t we all with the local news series? Perhaps that’s partly responsible for this. People get subliminal messages, you know.”

  Chief Bolan zipped his jacket. “You observed nothing during your counseling that might shed light on a motive for Blaine Cartier’s murder?”

  “I’m sorry I can’t help.”

  “Then I’ll take my leave.” He enunciated each word.

  “Her situation was terribly sad.”

  Chief Bolan stood up. “Thanks for your time. If you think of anything that might be significant, please call. I’m sure it must be shocking to see this end to a divorced woman’s life.”

  Dr. Karen shook her head. “Sadly, little that people do to hurt themselves or one another surprises me.”

  “It must be hard to stay positive.”

  “I try.”

  “Don’t worry. Something will break in this case. We have several leads. It’s only a matter of time.”

  “Time,” Karen said, as she led the Chief to the door. “You speak of it as a power in itself. If only that were true.”

  “All I know is I intend to solve these murders no matter how long it takes. I just hope another death doesn’t occur in the meantime.”

  FIFTY

  When Ralph Barnes saw his daughter Whitney on the Rich and Lena Show, he considered calling immediately but put it off. Excellent procrastinator that he was, he contacted her the next week.

  “Honey, you were great. I’m so glad you told me you were going to be on.”

  “You watched?”

  “Of course.”

  Ralph would have disliked being called a TV addict, but in truth he was—most afternoons. Since his first wife’s sudden death, he’d become even more passive.

  His remarriage hadn’t helped. His second wife, ten years younger, had no intention of leaving the teaching job she loved, which left him home alone a lot.

  Characters from old movies and talk show hosts and guests had become his close companions since he’d retired.

  “I didn’t know how it would go. I’m glad you liked it. It’s great you called, Dad. I’ve been meaning to get up to see you, but I’ve been swamped. I’m ashamed it has been a month since I’ve been there. I wish you didn’t live an hour north of the city.”

  “I know you’ll come when you
can. It’s pretty here in the country this time of the year.”

  He wasn’t an idiot. He sensed she was more than a little uncomfortable in his new home around Irene, his second wife. Whitney had tried to get to know her. Irene answered every one of her questions with yes or no, which made interaction impossible. Plus, Irene always fluttered around, hovering over their conversations—which meant their talk stayed at surface level, too. Out of courtesy to Irene, both of them avoided any discussion of her mom.

  “Well, now that you’re a TV star, I know why you’ve been so busy.”

  She laughed. “Any chance you could come into the city today to meet me for lunch? I have a couple hours unscheduled. You have more free time than I do.”

  He bit his lip. Why did she always ask when she knew what his answer would be? “You know me—I’m a homebody.”

  He didn’t want to hurt her, but all the same he turned her down again. Same excuse. At least this time Whitney didn’t say, “Strange for a man who traveled almost non-stop during my growing up years.”

  “How’s Irene, Dad?” He imagined Whitney asked more out of politeness than interest.

  “Fine.” Wasn’t that all he ever had to say about his second wife? He sensed Whitney didn’t really care. Perhaps Irene had replaced her mom too quickly in Whitney’s opinion.

  “Is Irene still working?”

  “Monday through Friday, honey. I can’t get her to quit. Wish she would. I sure like retirement.”

  “Daddy, I just had an idea. I’d love to see you today. We put the paper to bed yesterday, and I could take the afternoon off. How about if I come for a visit? I can’t stay long, but I’d love to be with you. Just the two of us.”

  Maybe Whitney figured if she visited him during the day when Irene was at work, they could have a nice visit. Why not? After a moment of silence, he replied. “Sure, honey.” He couldn’t help the hint of reluctance in his voice. Would Whitney misread his response?

  * * *

  Blaine’s death had made Whitney want to connect emotionally to family, at least the little she had—her one remaining parent, her early security, her roots. She had questions to ask her father that had gone too long unanswered.