Good Deed Bad Deed : A Novel Mystery

by Marcia Morgan

  “My God, what happened to you?” Valerie said with genuine concern. She began to pace back and forth behind the counter, obviously very disturbed by the news.

  “I stepped off the curb and got hit by a car! I was lucky because it had begun to slow to make a turn. It was more of a glancing blow.”

  “That’s terrible. How injured are you? At least you’re conscious and coherent.”

  “Broken ankle, slight concussion and a torn ligament in my knee.”

  “You poor thing. What can I do to help?”

  “Well, they’re keeping me here overnight, because of the concussion.”

  Valerie paused before asking the question that pertained to her own inconvenience. In a concerned tone she asked, “Chloe, how long will it be before you can return to work? Any idea?” She waited, realizing that the young woman probably had no idea.

  “I’m in a cast for six weeks, then they say I’ll need therapy for at least another month. But I think the doctor said I could be switched to something called a ‘boot’ in a few weeks. But I still wouldn’t be able to stand for long periods.”

  “Well, well… Seems I’m up a stream without a paddle—we both are.”

  “What?” Chloe asked. “I’ve never heard that saying before.”

  “It’s American. Just means that I’ve got a problem with no probable solution. Your problem will solve itself, in six weeks.”

  Chloe sighed and said, “I’m so sorry, but I couldn’t help it. Are you going to replace me? I really like working in your shop, and I always do my best.”

  “Don’t worry. I have no intention of letting you go. I just have to figure out what to do. I can’t be there all the time.”

  “My sister was here. I told her I might get the sack, and she said she would help out at the shop, if it would help me keep my job. But I have to be honest … she really doesn’t know much about clothes. She’s only sixteen and still a total tomboy.”

  “Please thank her for me, but that doesn’t sound like the best idea. I think the best thing is for me to close the shop for a few weeks while I sort it out. My ex-sister-in-law has been after me to take a trip with her. If it wouldn’t be longer than that, I just might take her up on it.” As the thought of closing the shop entered Valerie’s mind, the thought of how her father would react to that decision came directly after. She sensed that his tolerance was wearing thin. Daughter or not, his investment had brought little return, if any. Perhaps it would be best not to tell him until after the fact.

  Chloe interrupted Valerie’s short reverie. “If that’s all, the nurse has come in to give me something for pain. I’ll probably be incoherent in a few minutes.”

  “Oh yes, that’s all for now. But can I bring you anything? I doubt you really want or need visitors since you’ll be going home tomorrow. I’m sure your parents will baby you, so enjoy it while you can.”

  Chloe laughed a little then there was nothing. Valerie wondered if she had hung up, or if the nurse was administering the drug. Maybe it had taken hold already. Just as she was ready to disconnect the call, Chloe spoke. “I just remembered. A man called several times this morning, looking for you. He wouldn’t give his name.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t Mr. Langdon? He’s been after me to go out to dinner with him, but I’ve declined because there’s just something about him that makes me feel a creepy discomfort. Not nice to say.” Valerie wondered why she was drawing the injured Chloe into the situation, but continued. “He came into the store asking if he could come back with the portfolio of his company’s hats. We exchanged business cards, but I told him that with current fashion trends, the call for hats was virtually non-existent. Then the calls about dinner started—like clockwork.”

  In a quiet and slurry voice, words disjointed, Chloe said, “Not him… different voice… wanted a number…Olivia…” Then there was silence.

  Valerie ended the call. Confusion set in as she wondered why someone would call her shop in search of Olivia. Chloe would be asleep by now. She couldn’t know if the girl had found Olivia’s number and shared it. Who in their right mind would give out a friend’s number to a male caller, and a stranger, she thought, and then set about tidying up the shop and removing cash from the drawer. The morning’s receipts totaled two, both paid by credit card. Happy to avoid a trip to the bank, she stuffed the cash in an envelope and put it into her bag. After checking locks at the back entrance, she gathered her belongings, switched the sign from open to closed, locked the doors and headed up the street to hail a taxi.

  * * *

  The last patient of the day had required a little extra time, and Dr. Kate had accommodated his need. But now she was more than ready to end what had been an unusually long and demanding day. The sunlight that seeped through the partially opened drapes had died, telling her that day was now night. She disliked taking the Tube after dark. No Tube after dark was just one of the mandates given to her years before by her late husband. She could still hear his voice reciting the various rules of safety, insisted upon throughout their marriage. Previously a mild annoyance to her on occasion, she now missed the consistent reminders given most mornings as they prepared to leave the house for their workday. It had been four years and she could still hear his voice. Would she forget it as the years passed? The thought disturbed her. She put her computer to sleep, informed her service she was leaving, turned off the lights and headed out to the elevator.

  Once on the street, Kate was able to hail a cab very quickly. She was soon on her way home to Boris, her decrepit old Yorkie, and a welcome glass of wine followed by some sort of easy meal. She laid her head back against the seat and reviewed the day. She had had trouble focusing on the patients who came after Valerie. The confrontational experience of that session was weighing on her. Without bidding the memories, she was taken back to the first time she had seen Ben and Valerie, now more than seven years ago. She had consented to treat their marriage, not realizing what she was in for. It became clear early on that Valerie’s purpose was to engage an advocate for her point of view and to validate her role of victim.

  Ben had been contrite, cooperative and unusually quiet. Kate expected that he had found talking made little difference when it came to Valerie’s complaints. It soon became clear that therapy was her idea, a last attempt to keep Ben in her life. In their first session Kate had learned that Ben was guilty of an indiscretion. Though unsubstantiated, Valerie maintained there had been more than one. After a few sessions with both of them together, it became more and more obvious what it must have been like to be married to the woman. She decided to see each separately, and when Ben had the opportunity to speak unimpeded, he was forthcoming about what was the real truth of their life together. Her experience and training made obvious which partner saw things realistically and spoke truthfully.

  The more time Dr. Kate spent with Valerie, the easier it was to understand Ben’s actions, if not to approve of them. Yet she found the wife to be a very interesting case—a challenge— perhaps even a case study to be written about at some point. She had required complete allegiance, which meant that Ben was expected to bow to her whims and provide the amount of attention she expected. Ben concluded that no one could please her and thus responded to her demands by withdrawing further and further. The more attention she either asked for or demanded through tantrums and attempted manipulation, the less he was inclined to give.

  Eventually he had withdrawn from her to the point where his need for physical companionship urged him to cheat. When Valerie became aware of his infidelity, she tried, very poorly, to dispatch herself with pills. It was clear to Kate that the act was Valerie’s deluded effort to bring him back to her. Kate’s intention in therapy was to guide her to that realization. She confided to Ben that if Valerie had wanted to succeed, she would have taken more pills. Nor would she have scheduled lunch with his sister, whom she knew would come looking for her when she didn’t show up at the restaurant. It had been an act of egocentric desperation. It was
Ben’s sense of guilt that made him agree to take part in therapy. He had quickly established his position and repeated to Kate what he had told Valerie many times: He would not treat her like royalty.

  Kate was roused from deep thought by the driver’s voice telling her they had reached her address. Checking her watch before paying, she realized that her review of the Ben and Valerie saga had occupied her mind for over half an hour. She scolded herself for failing to leave work at the office. Once out of the taxi she could hear Boris barking his usual greeting from the partially opened window of her third floor flat. He was perched atop the pillow she kept for him on the window seat. She realized that he had spent most of his life waiting for their return, now just hers. A small set of doggie stairs now helped accommodate the old legs that would no longer jump that high. She headed up the steps to the entrance, preparing to shut out the rest of the world and its problems.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A large café macchiato sat cooling beside her iPad, opened to the first page of the London Times. Ignoring both, Olivia Grace McKinnon relaxed at a small table in her favorite coffee bar, fully engrossed in daydreaming. Regardless of her momentary disinterest in the news, and in spite of her relative youth, she regularly made herself aware of national and world events. She was certainly not politically motivated in the regular sense, believing that all politicians were talking heads who could not inherently speak truth on any subject. Asked by her parents about her interest in the news, she explained that the interest was primarily an effort to stay current with how badly those in charge were messing things up. In spite of reaching age twenty-seven, she had not quite advanced beyond the age of youthful idealism. Yet her parents took comfort in the fact that her opinions had not as yet translated into activism. Olivia’s most serious concerns usually involved wardrobe. She wondered on a daily basis whether or not she had attained the right look for whatever was in store.

  She occupied a tiny flat in Soho, much to her parents’ regret. They worried that the neighborhood might not be safe enough for a young woman who had been raised in the protected environment of the countryside. Her rebellions were subtle, but effective. Long after any parental thoughts of childbearing had been abandoned, they had been blessed with Olivia. She became somewhat an object of worship, both to them and to her big brother. Ben had been her protector, the hero of her fairytale games, the one person whom she could not disappoint. Or at least she had tried to make him proud. She suspected it hadn’t happened yet, but she was trying—would try harder perhaps. Olivia looked away from the news and gazed out of the floor to ceiling windows at the neighborhood residents busying themselves with daily life. Her thoughts drifted to the memory of years spent daydreaming under the giant English oak that graced the lawn and garden of her parents’ home—her home.

  Having come down with a slight case of summer lethargy, Olivia had left her job early and made the urge for coffee her first priority. She had taken a shortcut through the neighborhood park and noticed that summer was in full bloom. Bursts of color delighted the eyes of those who chose that route toward their destinations, and she was glad to have done the same. Her leisurely walk had prompted a few ideas regarding the color pallet she would recommend to the new client. The dream of having her own design business seemed as far away as ever, but she did enjoy her job. Paris McKinnon, a doting yet practical mother, had told her that in order to be taken seriously, she would need to soften her look, stop going for the outlandish, and find her self-expression in a less unconventional way. Not yet. Maybe when I turn thirty, she thought, straightening the assorted bangles on her wrists.

  Olivia stopped her daydreaming and took the last swig of coffee. She closed out the newspaper and brought up her personal notebook page, where she kept the ideas related to her job. She quickly made notes on possible color schemes and then turned off her tablet. The belongings were ready to go, but she was not. Her mind wandered from thoughts of home and family to the last time she had seen Ben, now almost six months ago. They had met for dinner at a trendy Soho eatery. She had intended to treat, but had found herself a little cash-poor then mortified when informed by the waiter of her maxed out credit card. Ben had laughed and shaken his head, like he wasn’t surprised, and was only too glad to cover the bill. She had felt small, inadequate, and although her reaction wasn’t his fault, she had shut down and ruined the rest of the evening with her petulance. Off and on during the last six months she had thought of getting in touch, but ego had stopped any action. Olivia had wondered from time to time—more often recently—why he hadn’t just contacted her. But finally the realization came that it was up to her to smooth the way.

  She tucked the tablet into her large bag and headed out into the afternoon. After a few stops to purchase essentials such as cheese, bread, wine and chocolate, she found herself reluctant to go home. There were days when the walls seemed to close in, when the emptiness of her flat accentuated the perceived emptiness in her life. Olivia had always been told that she was a beautiful woman, and on some level she knew it. Her mother didn’t understand why with such beauty she chose to distract from her gift with tri-colored hair, unnecessary piercings, strange outfits, and enough jewelry to weigh down even a robust pair of arms. She had insisted to her mother that the colors weren’t meant to be permanent, and she had currently opted to leave her hair as nature intended—a glossy dark copper, prone to rogue waves. Her eyes were green as a cat’s, her body lithe. She was tall, like Ben, and contrary to family opinion, she could carry off a variety of styles, from Boho to high fashion. A trip through the second-hand and vintage clothing stores was a favorite way to spend a Sunday, depending on weather. There was no doubt she had a flair for fashion; however, she had chosen to work for an interior designer, where she could exercise her love of color and fabric.

  Olivia paused outside her building and sighed, trying one more time to think of somewhere else she could go, something else she could do to pass the evening. As she started up the stairs, her mobile rang. The sound was barely audible, considering the street noise and the phone’s location in the depths of her bag. She answered and was surprised to hear the name of the client to whom she had been introduced a few days prior. She wondered how Mr. Warren had obtained her number, but then realized he must have picked up one of her cards from the receptionist’s desk. Surely this is about business, she thought, and said, “Yes, this is Olivia McKinnon. Hello, Mr. Warren. May I help you with something?” She continued to speak before he could answer. “We do have some fabrics set aside for you to see at your earliest convenience, but I can’t really make an appointment now. I’m not in the office.”

  “Oh, I’m not calling about the decorating.” There was a short pause on the other end before he continued, his tone slightly apologetic. “I hope you’ll forgive me for being opportunistic, but I couldn’t resist taking a chance on inviting you to share a meal with me. I’d like to continue the conversation we started at the shop.”

  “Mr. Warren, I’m not sure that would be appropriate, given that I’m basically your employee until your office is decorated. And I’m not sure what conversation you’re referring to.” Worried that she might be dressed-down by her boss if she offended a client, she said, “Does the additional conversation you require have to do with your re-decorating project?”

  Not to be discouraged, ‘Clive Warren’ proposed an alternative arrangement. “No, it isn’t about the job. I’d just like to continue the perfunctory getting acquainted conversation we were having. As you may recall, it was interrupted.”

  Olivia didn’t remember much about the conversation, only that he didn’t have a long wait before she accompanied him into her boss’ office to discuss the project. Once again not wishing to be impolite, she said, “Yes, I remember there was only a short wait before Mr. Saunders called us into his office.” Extemporaneous responses to the man’s suggestion were becoming more difficult.

  “After you had introduced me and left your employer’s office, he had nothing
but glowing things to say about your taste. But after all, this project is just for a place of business, not a castle, so I would be more than satisfied to work with one of the other associates.” He waited for Olivia to respond, but met with her silence, he said, “That would be a more than acceptable tradeoff for the privilege of spending an evening with you.”

  A few more moments of silence ensued while Olivia pondered the issue. If she had observed correctly, he seemed just a little older than she was, attractive, but more in the way of a rugby player who hadn’t shied away from the occasional broken or bloody nose. That, along with the strong jaw and close-cropped hair, had been at odds with the fashionable business attire he sported when they first met in the office. He was definitely rugged looking, well built, and when speaking he revealed, only slightly, his comprehensive school education. She deduced that he couldn’t be dull, or a lay-about. After all, if he did actually play rugby, he might be quite intelligent. She had heard it called ‘a thinking man’s game’—an upper class game that originated in private schools. She reminded herself not to be elitist and focused on the fact that he was employed, with his own office, and he could afford to redecorate it.

  Picturing an evening alone in her quiet flat, Olivia spoke. “As it happens, I am free this evening. Perhaps we could meet for a drink and then see if it turns into dinner.”

  “Great. But I don’t want you to have to get a taxi or, heaven forbid, use the Tube at night. So where in your neighborhood might we get a decent meal? And which is your neighborhood, by the way?”

  “I live in Soho,” she said, adding, “Let me think for a minute.” Olivia decided on one of her favorite places, visited infrequently due to the prices.” Are you okay with Italian?”

  “Sure,” ‘Clive’ answered, “You can’t go wrong with Italian.”

  “Then I suggest Princi. It’s just around the corner on Wardour Street, and Wardour intersects with Broadwick. But I must warn you, it’s a bit pricey. If you’d like to go elsewhere, that’s fine.”