After being sent in to the inner office, before she even sat down in one of the leather guest chairs, Estelle said, “Your assistant is wearing oven mitts, did you know that?”
Valerie Riordan, for once with a few hairs out of place, rubbed her temples, looked at her desk blotter, and said, “I know. She has a skin condition.”
“But they’re taped on with duct tape.”
“It’s a very bad skin condition. How are you today?”
Estelle looked back toward the door. “Poor thing. She seemed out of breath when I came in. Has she seen a doctor?”
“Chloe will be fine, Estelle. Her typing skills may even improve.”
Estelle sensed that Dr. Val was not having a good day and decided to let the assistant in oven mitts pass. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice. I know it’s been a while since we’ve had a session, but I really felt I need to talk to someone. My life has gotten a little weird lately.”
“There’s a lot of that going around,” Dr. Val said, doodling on a legal pad as she spoke. “What’s up?”
“I’ve met a man.”
Dr. Val looked up for the first time. “You have?”
“He’s a musician. A Bluesman. He’s been playing at the Slug. I met him there. We’ve been, well, he’s been staying at my place for the last couple of days.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
“I like it. I like him. I haven’t been with a man since my husband died. I thought I would feel like, well, like I was betraying him. But I don’t. I feel great. He’s funny, and he has this sense of, I don’t know, wisdom. Like he’s seen it all, but he hasn’t become cynical. He seems sort of bemused by the hardships in life. Not at all like most people.”
“But what about you?”
“I think I love him.”
“Does he love you?”
“I think so. But he says he’s going to leave. That’s what’s bothering me. I finally got used to being alone, and now that I found someone, he’s going to leave me because he’s afraid of a sea monster.”
Valerie Riordan dropped her pen and slumped in her chair—a very unprofessional move, Estelle thought.
“Excuse me?” Val said.
“A sea monster. We were at the beach the other night, and something came up out of the water. Something big. We ran for the car, and later Catfish told me that he was once chased by a sea monster down in the Delta and that it had come back to get him. He says he doesn’t want other people to get hurt, but I think he’s just afraid. He thinks the monster will come back as long as he’s on the coast. He’s trying to get a gig in Iowa, as far from the coast as he can get. Do you think he’s just afraid to commit? I read a lot about that in the women’s magazines.”
“A sea monster? Is that a metaphor for something? Some Blues term that I’m not getting?”
“No, I think it’s a reptile, at least the way he describes it. I didn’t get a good look at it. It ate his best friend when he was a young man. I think he’s running away from the guilt. What do you think?”
“Estelle, there’s no such thing as sea monsters.”
“Catfish said that no one would believe me.”
“Catfish?”
“That’s his name. My Bluesman. He’s very sweet. He has a sense of gallantry that you don’t see much anymore. I don’t think it’s an act. He’s too old for that. I didn’t think I would ever feel this way again. These are girl feelings, not woman feelings. I want to spend the rest of my life with him. I want to have his grandchildren.”
“Grandchildren?”
“Sure, he’s had his days with the booze and the hos, but I think he’s ready to settle down.”
“The booze and the hos?”
Dr. Val seemed to have gone into some sort of fugue state, working on a stunned psychiatrist autopilot where all she could do was parrot what Estelle said back in the form of a question. Estelle needed more input than this.
“Do you think I should tell the authorities?”
“About the booze and the hos?”
“The sea monster. That Plotznik boy is missing, you know?”
Dr. Val made a show of straightening her blouse and assuming a controlled, staid, professional posture. “Estelle, I think we may need to adjust your medication.”
“I haven’t been taking it. But I feel fine. Catfish says that if Prozac had been invented a hundred years ago there wouldn’t have been any Blues at all. Just a lot of happy people with no soul. I tend to agree with him. The antidepressants served their purpose for me after Joe died, but I’m not sure I need them now. I even feel like I could get some painting done—if I can find some time away from sex.”
Dr. Val winced. “I was thinking of something besides antidepressants, Estelle. You obviously are dealing with some serious changes right now. I’m not sure how to proceed. Do you think that Mr., uh, Catfish would mind coming to a session with you?”
“That might be tough. He doesn’t like your mojo.”
“My mojo?”
“Not your mojo in particular. Just psychiatrist’s mojo in general. He spent a little time in a mental hospital in Mississippi after the monster ate his friend. He didn’t care for the staff’s mojo.” Estelle realized that her vocabulary, even her way of thinking, had changed over the last few days, the result of immersion in Catfish’s Blues world.
The doctor was rubbing her temples again. “Estelle, let’s make another appointment for tomorrow or the next day. Tell Chloe to add it on at the end of the day if I’m booked up. And try to bring your gentleman along with you. In the meantime, assure him that my practice is mojo-free, would you?”
Estelle stood. “Can that little girl write with those oven mitts on?”
“She’ll manage.”
“So what should I do? I don’t want him to go. But I feel like I’ve lost a part of myself by falling in love. I’m happy, but I don’t know who I am anymore. I’m worried.” Estelle realized that she was starting to whine and looked at her shoes, ashamed.
“That’s our time, Estelle. Let’s save this for our next appointment.”
“Right. Should I tell the constable about the sea monster?”
“Let’s hold off on that for now. These things have a way of taking care of themselves.”
“Thanks, Dr. Val. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Good-bye, Estelle.”
Estelle left the office and stopped at Chloe’s desk outside. The girl was gone, but there were animal noises coming from the bathroom just down the hall. Perhaps she had caught one of the oven mitts on her nose ring. Poor thing. Estelle went to the bathroom door and knocked lightly.
“Are you okay in there, dear? Do you need some help?”
The answer came back in high moan. “I’m fine. Really fine. Thanks. Oh my God!”
“You’re sure?”
“No, that’s all right!”
“I’m supposed to make an appointment for tomorrow or the next day. The doctor said to pencil it in late if you have to.” Estelle could hear thumping noises coming from the bathroom, and it sounded as if the medicine cabinet had dumped.
“Oh wow! Wow! Oh wow!”
The scheduling must really have been tight. “I’m sorry. I won’t bother you anymore. Call me to confirm, would you, dear?”
Estelle left Valerie Riordan’s house even more unsettled than she had come in, thinking that it had been quite some time, half a day anyway, since she had had her skinny Bluesman between the sheets.
Dr. Val
Val had a break between appointments, time in which to reflect on her suspicion that by taking everyone in Pine Cove off antidepressants, she had turned the town into a squirrel’s nest. Estelle Boyet had always been a tad eccentric, it was part of her artist persona, but Val had never seen this as unhealthy. On the contrary, the self-image of an eccentric artist seemed to help Estelle get over losing her husband. But now the woman was raving about sea monsters, and worse, she was getting involved in a relationship with a man that could
only be construed as self-destructive.
Could people—rational adult people—still fall in love like that? Could they still feel like that? Val wanted to feel like that. For the first time since her divorce, it occurred to her that she actually wanted to be involved again with a man. No, not just involved, in love. She pulled her Rolodex from the desk drawer and thumbed through it until she found the number of her psychiatrist in San Junipero. She had been in analysis all through med school and residency, it was an integral part of the training of any psychiatrist, but she hadn’t seen her therapist in over five years. Maybe it was time. What sort of cynicism had come over her, that she was interpreting the desire to fall in love as a condition requiring treatment? Maybe her cynicism was the problem. Of course she couldn’t tell him about what she had done to her patients, but perhaps…
A red light blinked on the tiny LED panel on her phone and the incoming call, screened by Chloe, who had obviously taken a short break from her self-abuse, scrolled across the screen. Constable Crowe, line one. Speaking of squirrels.
She picked up the phone. “Dr. Riordan.”
“Hi, Dr. Riordan, this is Theo Crowe. I just called to tell you that you were right.”
“Thank you for calling, Constable. Have a nice day.”
“You were right about Bess Leander not taking the antidepressants. I just got a look at the toxicology report. There was no Zoloft in her system.”
Val stopped breathing.
“Doctor, are you there?”
All her worries about the drugs, this whole perverse plan, all the extra sessions, the long hours, the guilt, the friggin‘ guilt, and Bess Leander hadn’t been taking her medication at all. Val felt sick to her stomach.
“Doctor?” Theo said.
Val forced herself to take a deep breath. “Why? I mean, when? It’s been over a month. When did you find this out?”
“Just today. I wasn’t given access to the autopsy report. No one was. I’m sorry it took so long.”
“Well, thank you for letting me know, Constable. I appreciate it.” She prepared to ring off.
“Dr. Riordan, don’t you have to get a medical history on your patients before you prescribe anything?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Do you know if Bess Leander had any heart problems?”
“No, physically she was a very healthy woman, as far as I know. Why?”
“No reason,” Theo said. “Oh yeah, I never got your thoughts on the information I shared at breakfast. About Joseph Leander. I was still wondering if you had any thoughts?”
The whole world had flip-flopped. Val had stone-walled up to now on Bess Leander because she had assumed that her own negligence had had something to do with Bess’s death. What now, though? Really, she didn’t know much about Bess at all. She said, “What exactly do you want from me, Constable?”
“I just need to know, did she suspect her husband of having an affair? Or give you any indication that she might be afraid of him?”
“Are you saying what I think you are saying? You don’t think Bess Leander committed suicide?”
“I’m not saying that. I’m just asking.”
Val searched her memory. What had Bess Leander said about her husband? “I remember her saying that she felt he was uninvolved in their family life and that she had laid down the law to him.”
“Laid down the law? In what way?”
“She told him that because he refused to put the toilet seat down, he was going to have to sit down to pee from now on.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s all I can remember. Joseph Leander is a salesman. He was gone a lot. I think Bess felt that he was somewhat of an intrusion on her and the girls’ lives. It wasn’t a healthy relationship.” As if there is such a thing, Val thought. “Are you investigating Joseph Leander?”
“I’d rather not say,” Theo said. “Do you think I should be?”
“You’re the policeman, Mr. Crowe.”
“I am? Oh, right, I am. Anyway, thanks, Doctor. By the way, my friend Gabe thought you were, uh, interesting, I mean, charming. I mean, he enjoyed talking with you.”
“He did?”
“Don’t tell him I said so.”
“Of course. Good-bye, Constable.” Val hung up and sat back in her chair. She had unnecessarily put an entire town in emotional chaos, committed a basketful of federal crimes as well as breaking nearly every ethical standard in her field, and one of her patients had possibly been murdered, but she felt, well, sort of excited. Charming, she thought. He found me charming. I wonder if he really said “charming” or if Theo was just making that up—the pothead.
Charming.
She smiled and buzzed Chloe to send in her next appointment.
Sixteen
Mavis
The phone behind the bar rang and Mavis yanked it out of its cradle. “Mount Olympus, Goddess of Sex speaking,” she said, and there was a mechanical ratcheting noise as she cocked a hip while she listened. “No, I haven’t seen him—like I would even tell you if he was here. Hell, woman, I have a sacred trust here—I can’t rat out every husband who comes in for a snort after work. How would I know? Honey, you want to keep this kind of thing from happening? Two words: long, nasty blowjobs. Yeah, well, if you were doing them instead of counting words, then maybe you wouldn’t lose your husband. Oh, all right, hold on.”
Mavis held her receiver to breast and shouted, “Hey! Anyone seen Les from the hardware store?” A few heads shook and a fusillade of “nopes” fired through the bar.
“Nope, he’s not here. Yeah, if I see him, I’ll be sure and tell him that there was a screeching harpy looking for him. Oh yeah, well, I’ve been done doggie-style by the Better Business Bureau and they liked it, so say hi for me.”
Mavis slammed down the phone. She felt like the Tin Man left out in the rain. Her metal parts felt rusty and she was sure that her plastic parts were going to mush. Ten o’clock on a Saturday, live entertainment on the stage, and she still hadn’t sold enough liquor to cover the cost of her Blues singer. Oh, the bar was full, but people were nursing their drinks, making them last, making goo-goo eyes at each other and slipping out, couple by couple, without dropping a sawbuck. What in the hell had come over this town? The Blues singer was supposed to drive them to drink, but the entire population seemed to be absolutely giddy with love. They were talking instead of drinking. Wimps. Mavis spit into the bar sink in disgust and there was a pinging sound from a tiny spring that had dislodged somewhere inside of her.
Wusses. Mavis threw back a shot of Bushmills and glared at the couples sitting at the bar, then glared at Catfish, who was finishing up a set on the stage, his National steel guitar whining as he sang about losing his soul at the crossroads.
Catfish told the story of the great Robert Johnson, the haunting Bluesman who had met the devil at the crossroads and bargained his soul for supernatural ability, but was pursued throughout his life by a hellhound that had caught his scent at the gates of hell and finally took him home when a jealous husband slipped poison into Johnson’s liquor.
“Truth be,” Catfish said into the microphone, “I done stood at midnight at every crossroad in the Delta lookin‘ to sell my soul, but wasn’t nobody buyin’. Now that there is the Blues. But I gots me my own brand of hellhound, surely I do.”
“That’s sweet, fish boy,” Mavis shouted from behind the bar. “Come over here, I gotta talk to you.”
“‘Scuse me, folks, they’s a call from hell right now,” Catfish said to the crowd with a grin. But no one was listening. He put his guitar in the stand and ambled over to Mavis.
“You’re not loud enough,” Mavis said.
“Turn up your hearing aid, woman. I ain’t got no pickup in that National. They’s only so high you can go into a mike or she feed back.”
“People are talking, not drinking. Play louder. And no love songs.”
“I gots me a Fender Stratocaster and a Marshall amp in the car, but I don’t like playin ‘l
ectric.”
“Go get them. Plug in. Play loud. I don’t need you if you don’t sell liquor.”
“This gonna be my last night anyway.”
“Get the guitar,” Mavis said.
Molly
Molly slammed the truck into the Dumpster behind the Head of the Slug Saloon. Glass from the headlights tinkled to the tarmac and the fan raked across the radiator with a grating shriek. It had been a few years since Molly had done any driving, and Les had left out a few parts from the do-it-yourself brake kit he’d installed. Molly turned off the engine and set the parking brake, then wiped the steering wheel and shift knob with the sleeve of her sweatshirt to remove any fingerprints. She climbed out of the truck and tossed the keys into the mashed Dumpster. There was no music coming from the back door of the Slug, only the smell of stale beer and the low murmur of conversation. She scampered out of the alley and started the four-block walk home.
A low fog drifted over Cypress Street and Molly was grateful for the cover. There were only a few lights on in the park’s trailers, and she hurried past them to where her own windows flickered with the lonely blue of the unwatched television. She looked past her house to the space where Steve lay healing and noticed a figure outlined in the fog. As she drew closer, she could see that it was not one person, but two, standing not twenty feet from the dragon trailer. Her heart sank. She expected the beams of police flashlights to swing through the fog any second, but the figures were just standing there. She crept around the edge of her trailer, pressed so close that she could feel the cold coming off the aluminum skin through her sweatshirt.
A woman’s voice cut the fog, “Lord, we have heeded your call and come unto you. Forgive us our casual attire, as our dry cleaner did close for the weekend and we are left sorely without outfits with matching accessories.”
The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove pc-2 Page 13
