Bound by Suggestion

by L.L. Bartlett

  I finished folding pillowcases, didn’t meet her gaze.

  “Maybe you should talk to Richard,” she suggested gently.

  “Maybe.” I worked to keep my face neutral. I pulled the flat sheet from the dryer, handed her two corners.

  “I’ve got good news.” She stepped back to the pull the fabric taut.

  I risked a glance in her direction.

  “I’m pregnant.”

  “I know.” I should’ve shown more enthusiasm, but then this wasn’t a surprise to me and she knew it. She’d have this baby. A little girl, Elizabeth Ruth—Betsy for short—named after Richard’s and my mother, and Brenda’s deceased twin sister.

  “That’s all you have to say?” she asked, as we joined corners.

  I tried to stifle a smile. “She’ll be gorgeous.”

  “Was there a doubt? I suppose you even know her name?”

  “As a matter of fact—”

  She put a hand over my mouth. “You can tell me after we decide.”

  “Deal.” I pulled the fitted sheet from the dryer, gave her another two corners.

  “You’ve been avoiding me,” she said.

  “Not really. It’s just that you and Maggie are good friends. I don’t want that to end because we aren’t seeing each other any more.”

  “I won’t pretend this situation doesn’t upset me. I love you both. But I made it clear to Maggie that you’re family and that’s where my first loyalty lies.”

  I finished folding the sheet, couldn’t look her in the eye. “I appreciate that. I won’t ask you about her—put you in the middle.”

  “Thank you.”

  I finished folding the last few items. “By the way, did you see me come home yesterday afternoon?”

  She shook her head. “No. Why?

  I shrugged to cover my anxiety. “I kind of lost track of things. I’ve been trying to piece it together.”

  She looked down at the neatly folded sheets in my laundry basket. “Maybe you had a lot on your mind.”

  Yeah, like why I’d parked in Richard’s spot in the garage. Now I felt even more uncomfortable.

  I hefted the laundry basket under one arm and headed for the stairs. Brenda followed.

  Richard stood at the kitchen counter, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

  “You’re home early,” I said.

  “I’m splitting my time at the clinic. They’ll be shorthanded on Monday. Besides, it gave me a chance to drop my car off at the dealership.”

  “The steering?”

  “Brenda says it cuts out.”

  “It does,” she insisted.

  Richard shrugged.

  “I hear congratulations are in order,” I said, changing the subject.

  He smiled. “It’s about time Brenda told you.”

  Brenda brushed past me, heading for the hall. “Why don’t I leave you men alone to talk.” She gave me a knowing look before disappearing.

  Richard glanced at me curiously. “Talk about what?”

  “Brenda worries too much.”

  I set the laundry basket down on the table, got myself a mug from the cupboard and drained the pot.

  “Something wrong?” Richard asked.

  I got out the milk, tipped some in, stirred it, and then took a sip. Too cold.

  “Not wrong. I’ve just been having these . . . dreams.”

  As I could’ve predicted, a look of such apprehension came over him that it was almost comical.

  “Who died this time?”

  “No one.” I stifled a laugh and placed my cup in the microwave, avoiding his gaze. “They started out as really good sex dreams—every stupid, clichéd fantasy. But then they changed . . . .” How could I explain something I couldn’t understand. I set the timer, then hit the start button.

  He kept looking at me, an odd expression on his face. Not exactly discomfort; as a doctor he’d probably heard a lot worse than this.

  “I’m no—” He forced himself to use the hated term for my benefit. “—shrink, but my guess is it has something to do with your unresolved issues with Maggie.”

  “She’s not even in them.”

  “She doesn’t have to be. Have you talked to Krista about this?”

  “I’m not her patient. Besides, it’s bad enough talking about it to you.”

  The microwave beeped and I took out the coffee. Now it was too hot. I blew on it to cool it.

  “You said the dreams changed,” Richard reminded me. “How?”

  I hesitated. “Bondage . . . stuff I’m not into. But, it’s all sensory. No images. I never dreamed like that before.”

  He thought about it. “I’ll ask around. Don’t worry, I won’t divulge your identity.”

  “You make me sound like Batman, but . . . thanks.” I cleared my throat. “So, you guys settled on a name for this baby?”

  “Brenda’s convinced it’s a girl—”

  “She’s right.”

  “So we’ve got it narrowed to three or four.”

  “If you want to narrow it further, I can tell you what it’ll be.”

  “Thanks, but we’ll make this decision on our own.”

  “Have it your way.” I grabbed my laundry and headed for the door.

  “And bring back the cup,” Richard called after my retreating back.

  “Smile,” Richard whispered, guiding Brenda past the floor-to-ceiling mirrored wall festooned with white twinkle lights. Alexander’s glittered, and so did its clientele.

  Dutifully, Brenda manufactured a forced, plastic smile.

  “A real one,” Richard said.

  The rictus around her mouth faded. She took a breath, pursed her lips, and her next attempt was more genuine.

  Richard felt his own lips turn up. “Thank you. We won’t stay long. And we’ll do something you want next weekend. Maybe go to Toronto.”

  “No we won’t,” she said. “Saturday’s the Foundation gala, and it’s also Jeffy’s birthday. Which means we’d better do something for him on Sunday. We forgot last year, and I could still kick myself for it.”

  They stepped up to the bar and Richard signaled for the bartender. “Scotch on the rocks. You want anything?”

  Brenda shook her head.

  “Why don’t we just ask him to go with us. I bought an extra pair of tickets. I was going to offer them to him and Maggie anyway.”

  “Maggie’s out of the picture,” Brenda reminded him. “You can ask him, but we still need to do something special for him. I think he needs it.”

  The bartender placed a napkin and the drink before Richard. He gave her a bill. “Keep the change.” He picked up the glass and pointed toward Mona and a few of the board members. “This way. What do you mean he needs it?”

  “Well, when I talked to him earlier today, he was—”

  Before Brenda could finish, Wes Timberly strolled over and slapped Richard on the back, slopping his drink.

  “Dr. Dick,” he said, face alight with a dazzling smile. “And you are?” he asked, taking in Brenda.

  Richard mopped his sleeve with the napkin. “My wife, Brenda Stanley.”

  Timberly offered his hand and Brenda took it. His smile didn’t waver, but Richard saw Brenda’s face tighten before she withdrew her hand.

  “Children?” Timberly asked.

  “October,” Brenda said, flexing her fingers.

  “Then congratulations are in order, Dickie-boy.” He slapped Richard on the shoulder again, sloshing the drink once more. “Of course most of us had our kids twenty years ago, but I’m sure yours will be a chip off the old block.”

  “It’s a girl,” Brenda said.

  Timberly’s eyebrows rose. “Surely it’s too early to tell.”

  “We have it on good authority,” Brenda said.

  Timberly smirked and looked Richard in the eye. “That’s right. You’ve got that psychic brother.”

  Richard felt his face color and sipped his scotch. “Where did you get an idea like that?”

  “Heard it
through the hospital grapevine. Must come in handy for betting sports.” Timberly winked.

  Brenda frowned at the clod in front of her. “Exactly what is your specialty, Dr. Timberly?”

  “Gynecology.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  Timberly blinked, taken aback by her blunt tone. Richard stifled a smile.

  Brenda turned her attention away from the bore. “Richard, you said some of your friends would be here. I’d love to meet them. If you’ll excuse us, Dr. Timberly,” she said and stepped away.

  “Excuse us,” Richard echoed, and followed Brenda over to an hors d’oeuvres station.

  “Was that really necessary?” he murmured in her ear.

  She picked up a napkin and selected a piece of asparagus wrapped in prosciutto. “He was about to pick on Jeffy, and I’m simply won’t stand for that. Besides, he deliberately squeezed my hand—hard.”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “My penmanship may be affected for a day or two, but I’m okay.” She popped the asparagus into her mouth. “Mmm. Delicious. Try one.”

  Richard shook his head.

  “Who’s the guest of honor?” she asked.

  Richard pointed out Dr. Zimmer on the far side of the room.

  “I think I met him once,” Brenda said. “Shall we go wish him well in his retirement?”

  Richard guided her across the room. They had to wait several minutes before gaining an audience with Zimmer. It gave Richard time to think about what Timberly had said. As far as he knew, only two people at the hospital should have been aware of Jeff’s empathic abilities. Krista Marsh, and a staff neurologist—what was his name, Simons? —Jeff had consulted last summer.

  Richard sipped his scotch and frowned. The ice had melted. Had Krista mentioned Jeff to Timberly? Or had someone been nosing around in Jeff’s medical records? That was absurd. Who’d even want to know that kind of information? Maybe he’d have a chat with Wally Moses in Records on Monday. If somebody was messing with Jeff’s files, Richard wanted to know about it. And it should be possible to find out that information. There were other sources he could tap, too. Maybe he’d try tomorrow.

  “Dr. Alpert?” Zimmer said, thrusting his hand forward. Richard took it. “I’ve just been having the most delightful conversation with your charming wife.”

  Brenda blinked rapidly, feigning innocence.

  What had he missed?

  A smile warmed Richard’s lips. “She’s also sweet, loving, terrifically intelligent, and one helluva nurse.”

  “Oh don’t stop there, tell him what you really think of me!” Brenda teased.

  Zimmer laughed, and Richard joined him.

  The rest of the evening breezed by. Richard applied himself to some serious schmoozing, and figured he’d wrapped up another few thousand in pledged donations. But he couldn’t stop thinking about Timberly and his crack about Jeff, and wondered exactly what kind of trouble it portended.

  Chapter 8

  Richard shifted his weight as he stood outside Paula Devlin’s apartment. A bouncy country tune thumped inside. So much for thinking he’d come too early.

  He rang the doorbell again. Footsteps approached, paused. She must be checking him out through the peephole.

  The door swung open and Paula stood before him in a mauve sweater, black stirrup pants and fuzzy pink slippers. The color had returned to her cheeks.

  “Dr. Alpert. What a surprise.”

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I thought I’d drop by and see how you were doing.” Only partly a lie.

  “Come in. Can I get you a cup of coffee? I was just about to make a fresh pot.”

  “Sure. Thanks.” He followed her into the kitchen, where she turned the volume down on a radio on the counter. Stacks of newspapers sat beside it, along with a box half filled with wrapped items. Grocery store cartons proclaiming bananas, apples and green beans made neat rows along the hallway and spilled into the living room.

  “Looks like you’re moving.”

  “At the end of the month,” she said, running water into the glass carafe. “I need a change. I need to be in a space where Eric never lived. Krista helped me see it would be good for me to start over.”

  “She’s helped you a lot.” It wasn’t a question.

  Paula measured ground coffee from a blue Maxwell House can. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without her. I feel stronger because of her.”

  Paula hit the switch and took two cups from the nearly empty cupboard.

  “Thanks so much for the beautiful flowers you and your wife sent. I’ve been trying to get all the thank-you cards written and mailed before the move. So many people sent flowers—hundreds of bouquets and wreaths. It blows my mind that all those strangers wanted to help, or at least express their condolences.” Her voice broke, and she coughed to cover it.

  “Are you okay, Paula?”

  For a moment her face went blank, her brown eyes just hollows of sorrow. Then she took a breath and smiled bravely. “I think so. I’ve lived through the worst that could possibly happen. Now I just have to face every day knowing my baby is gone.”

  Her lower lip quivered. Richard reached over to touch her hand.

  They sat at the table. Richard sipped his coffee, listening as Paula talked about the boy’s funeral. She seemed to need it.

  “Gosh, I’ve been blathering,” Paula said at last, her cheeks flushing.

  “Not at all.”

  She studied his face. “Something’s troubling you. I can see it in your eyes.”

  “I wouldn’t say troubling. But I have been trying to figure out how you and I got to talking about psychic—show my knowing Jeff Resnick came up in conversation.”

  Paula worried at her left thumbnail. She started to answer—then stopped herself.

  “It could be important,” he said.

  She got up to warm her coffee. “I told you about the woman psychic who wrote, then came to see me. But the things she told me about Eric weren’t right. She said he loved tacos. He hated tacos.” She sat down, dumped more sugar into her cup and stirred it. “I think I started to cry. You looked really worried and said you knew someone who might be able to help me, but that I shouldn’t get my hopes up.”

  Her words brought the incident back into focus. “Did someone actually tell you I knew a psychic?”

  She lowered her eyes, stared at the table. “Yes.”

  He waited. She didn’t elaborate.

  “Did this person suggest you mention your experience with the other psychic?” he tried again.

  She exhaled loudly. “It was Dr. Marsh.”

  Richard worked at keeping his face impassive. “Can you remember exactly what she said?”

  “Just that you might know someone who could help me. But that I shouldn’t mention that she suggested it.” Paula’s brow furrowed. “Is Mr. Resnick in trouble?”

  “No. But he values his anonymity.”

  “There was nothing about him in the paper. How could Krista telling me about him invade his privacy?”

  “It can’t.” Richard saw no point in explaining the situation when she was already dealing with her own emotional overload.

  “You care about him, don’t you?” Paula said.

  “He’s probably my best friend.”

  “He’s lucky to have you for a friend.”

  Richard frowned. Lucky? Maybe not. When God handed out good fortune, Jeff got shorted. Yet for all the crap he’d endured, Richard hadn’t heard him complain. Jeff simply accepted what life handed him. That passivity sometimes irritated Richard.

  “I’ve thought about Mr. Resnick a lot since that day,” Paula said, “wondering how I could thank him for giving me closure on my son’s death.”

  “That’s not necessary. He was glad to help you.” Okay, another partial lie.

  “It amazes me how anyone can do what he does. I’m sure he must run into a lot of people who’d want to abuse his talents.”

  Richard nodded, his unease c
ranking up another notch. Is that what Krista was doing? What had she hoped to gain by arranging that meeting? A controlled setting to test Jeff’s psychic abilities? And now she had him helping her with one of her other patients. But helping her do what? Her evasive answers the last time Richard spoke to her seemed almost sinister in retrospect.

  Good Lord, now he was getting paranoid.

  Richard pushed his chair back from the table. “I’d better be going.”

  Paula walked him to the door. “Thank you for coming. And thanks again for bringing Mr. Resnick.” She hugged him good-bye.

  As Richard headed for his car, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Jeff’s meeting with Paula was the catalyst in a chain of events that would lead to . . . disaster? He frowned. He really was letting his imagination run wild. At least, he hoped that’s all it was.

  Depending on the crowd, Saturday nights tending bar could be the best of times or the worst. I was late for work and heading out the door when the phone rang. I was tempted to let the machine take it, but something told me to grab it.

  “Jeff? It’s Sam.”

  “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon,” I said, glancing at my watch.

  “You ask a favor, I deliver. Only I couldn’t find much on Doug Mallon, other than the usual business relates.”

  “Which are?”

  “He got his B.S. in Printing at Rochester Institute of Technology, and an MBA from UB. He took over Mallon Printing five years ago when his old man died. He tripled their square footage and their profits. No actual financials, because it’s a family business.”

  “Anything personal?”

  “Not officially. But I called Bobby Tobin—remember Bobby from high school?”

  “Sam, I had my skull caved in with a baseball bat last year. I’m lucky I remember you.”

  “Well, Bobby’s got a prepress operation on the west side, and he’s President of the Buffalo Chapter of Printing Craftsmen of America.”

  “Now you’ve got my interest. What’s the dirt?”

  “There isn’t any. The guy’s a friggin’ angel. He’s won awards, gives generously to charity. Never been in trouble with the law.”

  “Ever married?”

  “To Danielle Gibson Mallon for eighteen years. She died of complications of MS last year. They never had any kids.”