A Hopeless Case

by K. K. Beck

  Consciously combining this knowledge with careful diction and a ladylike demeanor, Jane did her best to assure the doctor he was dealing with an intelligent woman, equal to him in class and intellect and therefore worthy of his time, attention, and confidences.

  “So in other words, to Linda, life was a stage. While she may have appeared and acted passionately, she was in reality rather shallow of feeling, and, as she would be unable to tap her own resources, she might be very receptive to a powerful person or an organization that promised to save her, bring her happiness.”

  “That’s right,” he said.

  “And so it would be very easy to separate her from her money with some promise of personal salvation. Isn’t that undue influence?”

  He gave her an attractive but slightly patronizing smile, and allowed his blue eyes to glow at her softly.

  “She was sane enough to give away her money. The money seems to concern you a great deal. What happened to the money is of no concern to me. My accountant will tell you I don’t concern myself with money at all. He finds this somehow threatening. But I’m a psychiatrist. It is the wellness of the mind, or soul if you will, that is my responsibility.”

  “Yes, of course. I suppose psychiatrists are the priests of our secular age,” she said, tempted to add they were spared a vow of poverty. If, through carelessness in financial matters, the doctor needed some quick cash, he could always sell those Incan relics in his waiting room, or the Jaguar sedan she’d seen in the parking lot.

  “I’ve heard that analogy many times,” said Dr. Hawthorne. He said it pleasantly but she had the impression he was determined not to let her think she’d had an original thought.

  “I suppose I had seen Linda somewhat as a victim of the sixties,” said Jane. “But you have put it all in very clinical terms, as if she would have developed the same way whenever she had lived.”

  “Well, we can’t discount societal influences entirely,” said Dr. Hawthorne, sounding as if he wished he could. “The sixties were a difficult time. But I still believe Linda’s case would have had the same tragic conclusion, whatever happened to her.”

  “You think she killed herself, don’t you?”

  “I think it is likely. That’s what I told the police at the time.”

  “I really appreciate your talking to me,” said Jane. “And I’m impressed that you remember it all so well. Did you consult your notes?”

  “They were destroyed,” said Hawthorne. “We don’t keep them after a patient dies.”

  She’d hoped they’d be around. “You have a remarkable memory,” said Jane. “It’s been so many years.”

  “Yes. It’s strange, how vivid it all is. I think it’s because it was an intense time in my own life. I was divorced around that time.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry,” said Jane, rather astonished that he was telling her anything about himself. Maybe he got tired of listening silently to patients hour after hour. “That is always difficult.”

  “Well, it was the wisest course of action,” said Hawthorne. “Caroline’s character development was hampered by her dependent relationship with me. Even though she had been an independent woman, putting me through medical school, for instance, her relationship with me was based on her transferential perceptions about me. It was even interfering with proper working transference with her own analyst.

  “As long as she loved me the way she did, her personality conflicts remained unresolved.” He sighed. “I did it for her.”

  Jane nodded solemnly. This was the weirdest reason for a divorce she’d ever heard. “Did you remarry?” she said.

  Hawthorne’s face lit up. “Yes. I was fortunate in finding a woman, much younger than Caroline chronologically, but with a more fully integrated, independent personality. Tammy and I have been very happy.” Jane smiled politely. It didn’t take a medical degree to figure out he’d dumped his old wife and hooked up with some young tart, probably not in that order. He’d managed, however, to cast himself as the hero of the piece. Jane hoped Caroline got a great big fat settlement. After all, she’d put him through medical school.

  He twinkled at her. “Time’s up,” he said.

  She rose to go and thanked him again.

  “But tell me, Mrs. da Silva,” he said, taking her hand, “why you’re so interested in all of this. You’ve said it’s for the daughter’s sake. Just what are you trying to accomplish?” He said it teasingly, and seemed to imply she was in it for some neurotic reason of her own.

  “I’m just trying to help,” she said.

  “Help. I see.” He nodded slowly. “I hope you’ll call on me again if you need any help understanding Linda. Or your own motives.” He shook his head a little, as if to suggest she was a mentally sick woman. “I’d be glad to see you.”

  Out in the parking lot, she thought about that suitcase full of absolutely untraceable cash. It was an impossible task, getting that money back for Leonora. Maybe the doctor had a point. She probably should have her head examined.

  Chapter 13

  Jane had meant to spend the rest of the afternoon with Linda Donnelly’s notebooks, but the idea depressed her. Jane shuddered at the thought of all that woozy spiritual search, all that bad prose describing real pain.

  Instead, she made herself a sandwich and grabbed the Yellow Pages. It was easy. Right there under “Motion Picture Special Effects”: Richard English Productions. Optical Effects. Animation. Computer Graphics.

  She called the number.

  A receptionist answered. She sounded about sixteen. “Yes, he’s here. One moment please.”

  “Rick English.” It was a cheerful voice.

  Jane found herself making her voice sound cheerful, too. “My name is Jane da Silva, and I’m calling you about someone you may have known years ago.”

  “Oh yeah? Who’s that?”

  “Linda Donnelly.”

  There was silence. Finally, Jane said, “Mr. English?”

  “I’m here.” He didn’t sound happy anymore.

  “Do you think we could get together? I’m trying to find out about her.”

  Jane wished she’d just dropped in on him, the way she had with Susan Gilman and Judy Van Horne.

  “I’m a friend of her daughter. I’m helping her to find out a few things about her mother.”

  “I suppose we’d better talk,” he said. There was an air of resignation about his voice now. “Who gave you my name?”

  Stupid, thought Jane to herself. I wasn’t prepared for that. Judy Van Horne hadn’t said not to use her name, but if it wasn’t considered unethical to reveal the names of the other people in one’s therapy group, it should be. She extemporized hastily.

  “Linda left behind some notebooks. Your name was there.”

  “That’s impossible!” There was another pause, and then he said, “Can you come by after work?”

  “Sure. Tonight?”

  “No, no. I’ll be shooting all night. Tomorrow night. After seven?”

  “All right.” She repeated the Pine Street address in the phone book.

  “That’s right. Maybe you’d better bring those notebooks.”

  “Oh, all right,” she said, not intending to do any such thing. “Well, thank you, Mr. English. I really appreciate it.” She tried to sound casual.

  He hung up without saying good-bye, which seemed strange.

  She went into the kitchen for a cup of tea, and while she waited for the kettle to boil, she stepped out onto the back porch and looked out over the garden.

  It was kind of dark. Pruning, Jane decided. It all needed pruning. And a deck, a sunny deck with pots of flowers—geraniums and lobelia. And maybe in the garden she could grow some old-fashioned flowers like she’d seen at the market, tall and flouncy and delicately colored.

  The water in the kettle boiled and she made herself tea, critically examining Uncle Harold’s teacup in an uninspired pinkish floral pattern. She wanted her own plain white cups. She’d seen some in the coffee store at the Pike
Place Market. Very simple and restful. That’s how she wanted this house to look, lighter and simpler, so the lines stood out. She wanted everything utilitarian to be plain, and let the things for the soul stand out, books and pictures and flowers, and eventually, people.

  The phone rang and she went into the hall to answer it. She wanted a kitchen extension, too. It was Calvin Mason.

  “Great, you’re home,” he said in his usual enthusiastic way. “I got the basic information about the Flamers. Want to hear about it?”

  “Sure.”

  “I just sent out for a pizza. You want to come over here?”

  “All right.” She realized some company would be nice. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  “That’s what they said at the pizza place too. Don’t let the guy trample you in the lobby.”

  • • •

  “I’m glad you could come,” he said, when she had arrived. “I hate to eat alone. I usually grab dinner at the coffee shop on the corner, but I don’t want to answer a lot of stupid questions about my face. You want a beer?”

  “A beer sounds great,” she said. “It’s been a long day.”

  “Well, at least no one messed up your face,” he said from the kitchen, coming back with two cans of Rainier. He sat opposite her and handed her one. “So why don’t you tell me what you’re up to? How’s the hopeless case business?”

  She thought about it for a moment and looked over at him. His lip was swollen, as was one eye, but the other one looked kindly. “Strictly confidential,” she said.

  “Sure.”

  “I found that hopeless case right here in your building, as a matter of fact.”

  “So how about my finder’s fee?”

  “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

  He laughed. “Yeah. I’m kidding. A day late and a dollar short. You get used to it.”

  “I’m trying to get some money back from someone. For Leonora. Kenny’s kid. You know, the painters.”

  “Getting money back, huh? I been there. Good luck.”

  “Maybe it is impossible.” She sketched out the details of Linda Donnelly’s inheritance and how the Fellowship of the Flame got it all before she died.

  “So if you get this all straightened out somehow, you get that ride on the gravy train as per your uncle’s screwy will, which was prepared by Bucky’s own whacked-out uncle?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you really need to do all this?” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you strike me as a fairly solid citizen. Why do you want to run around looking for some hard-luck case and hassle around and hope you pass muster with the trustees to get paid?”

  “To be perfectly honest, I don’t know what else to do,” she said. “I think I’m having some kind of midlife crisis.” She collapsed into the sofa cushions.

  “So you want to throw it all over and live on the edge?”

  She laughed. “No, I want to settle down and be respectable. A midlife crisis means you mourn the loss of whatever you didn’t bother to do. For most people, it means they want to live recklessly, run off to Tahiti. For me, it means I want to settle down in Seattle and do an honest job and get paid a lot. I guess.”

  “You should have gone to graduate school. Got yourself a teacher’s credential or something,” he said, shaking his head. “Or worked for the government. They have tests and stuff you can take. You hang in there long enough you get yourself a pretty safe, sweet deal.” He shuddered. “Not my style, but some days I think I should have done something like that.”

  “But you couldn’t, right?” she said.

  “Right.” They were silent for a moment.

  “Me neither,” said Jane.

  “Maybe we’re just a couple of losers,” he said. “Kidding ourselves.”

  “Are we kidding anyone else?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.” He shrugged. “You’re a pretty class act. In that suit eating lunch with Bucky I thought you were rich and sassy. I don’t know about me.” He looked at her expectantly.

  “You’ve got a certain sassy charm yourself,” she said. “Let’s not call ourselves losers yet.”

  The pizza arrived. Calvin pushed aside some magazines and papers on the coffee table and they started eating.

  “So what have you done so far?” he asked.

  “Well, I’ve talked to her family and her best friend in high school and I even talked to her old psychiatrist. Just to get a general background, you know?”

  “Yes, I know. But you’re really setting yourself up for a lot of heartbreak. This happened sixteen years ago. There’s a statute of limitations on practically everything. Including fraud, if that’s what you’re alleging. Besides, these guys are tough nuts to crack. Want to hear what I got on them?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I do.”

  “The Fellowship of the Flame first emerged in the mid-sixties. They went legitimate and applied for nonprofit status in 1967. Until then they’d been a loose sort of commune that operated out of a house in the University District. Like all these outfits they had a main guy with a direct pipeline to Universal Truth.

  “They called him the Flamemaster.”

  Jane giggled. “Sounds like a kitchen appliance.”

  “Actually,” said Calvin, “it’s a Chevrolet engine from the fifties.”

  “What did these people believe, exactly?”

  “Other than that the Flamemaster had a monopoly on truth, it’s a little vague. Apparently the main deal was that modern living had suppressed our true nature, and that we all had to get in touch with the fire that burned in our souls. All unhappiness came from weak flames, and the idea was to get your flames going real good and your passionate nature would give you individual power and happiness.” Calvin coughed. “I happen to know from personal experience that your passionate nature can get you into lots of trouble, but back then, these kids were just coming off ‘Leave It to Beaver’ and ‘Ozzie and Harriet,’ you know? They were just babes.”

  “Yes, I know. What did the Fellowship do?”

  “Well, the Flamemaster took them through a series of exercises. I don’t know, shouting, chanting, orgies, who knows? Anyway, it was plenty noisy. It went on all night, apparently.”

  “Sleep deprivation,” said Jane.

  “That’s right. That’s standard in these cults, I guess. Anyway, the neighbors complained and the cops were over there every night. Pretty soon, the Flamers were getting weapons.”

  “Flamethrowers?” said Jane.

  “No, rifles and handguns. All legal, but pretty scary, nevertheless. They started talking about police harassment. There were some lawsuits.”

  “What happened?”

  “About that time, the group came into some money. They all moved to the country. Bought an old farm out on Vashon Island.”

  “When was this?”

  “Nineteen seventy-four.”

  “Just about the time Linda gave them her money. How were they financed before that?”

  “Everyone turned over their assets to the group. The Flamemaster had them all out working two jobs, and spending the rest of the time working on their own internal combustion.”

  “So what happened? Are they still out there?”

  “No. Everything kind of fizzled out after they moved to the country. There are some jobs on Vashon, but not enough for the people who want to live there. It’s an island for commuters dedicated enough to country life to ride those ferries every day. I guess the commute killed them and they drifted away.” Calvin shrugged. “Maybe they got their heads clear on the ferry ride every day. Maybe they just grew up.”

  Except Linda, thought Jane. “What happened to the Flamemaster?”

  “Beats me. Probably working some other scam. Maybe he went to law school or something. Maybe he just got burnt out. Ha-ha.”

  “Where did you get all this information?”

  Calvin looked a little edgy. “He wishes to remain anonymous.
”

  “Why?”

  “He had a bad run-in with these people back in the old days. He’s the guy I represented in a custody matter. He was hot for this girl, he joined the Flamers so he could be with her, and then he got kind of sucked in himself. They got married, had a little kid, and then he snapped out of it. There was a fight over the kid.”

  “Did he get the child back?”

  “No, but his ex-wife left the group, so he dropped his case. She got into feminism. Decided the Flamers were too patriarchal. Last I heard she was into Goddess worship.”

  “Why can’t I talk to him?”

  “He says he’s afraid of them. During the custody thing they got pretty weird. A couple of thugs showed up at his house. Pushed him around a little. And the Flamemaster put out the word that he was on the enemies list. He was afraid that would be enough to get one of the more fanatical followers to take matters into his own hands.”

  “But he can’t still be afraid of them,” she said. “They’ve disbanded.”

  Calvin shrugged. “As far as I know. To tell you the truth, I think my client is just embarrassed that he had anything to do with those people.”

  “I’m not surprised. But all I want to find out is if he remembered Linda.”

  “Well I can ask him for you,” said Calvin with a pleasant smile.

  “Yeah, I know. For a fee.”

  “Got a picture of her?”

  “I’ll get you one. I just want some background. I’d like to know what was going on at the time Linda turned over those funds, and around the time she died. See if you can set up a meeting. Or have him call me so I can talk to him over the phone, will you?”

  “Okay. I’m telling you, though, you won’t get anywhere with this. That girl’s money is gone.”

  “Sounds like they bought that place over on Vashon with it,” she said. Then she added impatiently, “Come on, can you call the guy now? See if he’ll talk to me?”

  “All right.” Calvin went over to his desk and flipped through his dog-eared Rolodex, then punched up the number. Jane listened carefully to his half of the conversation.