P.J. Morse - Clancy Parker 01 - Heavy Mental

by P. J. Morse

  The event caterers had laid out buffet tables full of food, along with a bar, in the main hall. Since the booze and food were in such close proximity, the gazebo seemed a logical place to hang out while drinking and eating. A few already-wobbly patrons were happily taking their cocktails and hors d’oeuvres inside. I could see a little through the entrance, and I thought I saw a tall man with black hair.

  Bypassing the cocktails, I cut straight to the gazebo entrance, sliding my way past two pompadoured art students who were busy calling every painting around them “anemic” and “apolitical.”

  Once I was inside, I understood why the gazebo was walled off. Images of three city skylines—Seattle, San Francisco, and New York—had been printed on the plastic, but shiny plastic leaves sat in piles on the edges of the gazebo floor. A few college-aged kids threatened to jump into the small piles, but the lone security guard would bark at random intervals, “DON’T TOUCH THE ART!”

  One of the art students said, “Isn’t this exhibit is about the decay of cities? We’re just giving it more meaning by jumping in the leaves!”

  The security guard replied, “DON’T TOUCH THE ART!”

  By the brightest yellow leaves stood my quarry, musing upon the San Francisco skyline. His shoulders were square and broad, and I could see thick muscles through the sleeves of his shirt.

  I had rehearsed my approach all afternoon, but I was still nervous. I was going to play the socialite’s daughter with a vague psychological malaise, and I—or at least Mom—had the cash to pay someone to listen to me. If he had heard about my day-job, there was no reason for him to know that Sabrina Norton Buckner had ever consulted me.

  I still felt like an adolescent fan when I moved in close and chirped, “Your book changed my life!”

  The doctor turned slowly from the skyline. His face seemed softer and less craggy in person, and he had a few gray hairs around his temples. He also wore the pleased, but restrained look of an artist in the presence of his fans. I knew that look well, as I had worn it several times among fans after my own shows. It was a look that concentrated on the fan but occasionally darted away to see what else was on the horizon.

  “I’m so sorry to bother you,” I stammered. “But I had to let you know. I didn’t expect to see you here. I only finished your book a few days ago, and it was absolutely mind-blowing …”

  Before Redburn responded, I noticed something else promising. His face lit up with just a few kind words. He was a sucker for praise.

  “Thank you, Miss -”

  “Parker. Clancy Parker. My mom—oops, Kit Whitman—sometimes takes me along to openings. I don’t know if you’ve met her, you probably haven’t heard of her …”

  Of course he had. But I was sending a not-so-subtle message that I was a fan who had money. Dr. Redburn got the memo, and he suddenly looked much more interested in what I had to say. He stopped looking away and kept his eyes on mine. “I do know your mom! She’s not a patient, but I’ve seen her at events like this. You really look like her. I definitely think it’s the eyes.”

  I felt a little too giddy after Dr. Redburn noticed my eyes. Perhaps it was the bourbon in Mom’s car or the small glass of wine I drank while tracking him down. From all indications, he liked looking at me, and I found myself wanting him to keep looking at me. Dr. Redburn had a swagger. I understood why the ladies flocked to him.

  I realized I was blushing and nearly kicked myself. I had a moment of relief when a tall woman with wild, curly blonde hair and a flowing, spangly silver robe squealed, “Oh, Doctor Craig!” and swooped upon him, nearly knocking him back into the art installation.

  The guard yelled, “DON’T TOUCH THE ART!”

  The woman barely noticed since she was busy throwing herself upon Dr. Redburn, enfolding him in her robe. I felt bad for him since she smelled strongly of baby powder and sweat.

  Dr. Redburn stiffened up, and he responded, “Peggy! So good to see you outside the office!” He hugged her back, and I tried not to be in the way, but I noticed that the doctor still kept his eyes on my face, not on his patient.

  Dr. Redburn then effortlessly shifted Peggy to his left and introduced us. “And, Peggy, this is Clancy Parker—she’s Kit Whitman’s daughter.”

  I said, “Pleased to meet you, Peggy.” I was thrilled that he remembered my name, but I immediately berated myself precisely because I was so thrilled.

  Peggy looked at me and blinked slowly, as if she were trying to remember where she’d seen me before. She extended a bejeweled hand to me. It seemed like many of Dr. Redburn’s clients liked wearing their jewelry in public. Then she gasped, “Ah! Kit’s daughter! You know, I’ve been trying to get your mother to see this fabulous doctor for the longest time!”

  Mom stepped up behind Peggy. “The only reason I don’t see Dr. Redburn is that my life is already perfect. However …” she leaned her head toward me “… there is a little something we could talk about—If you don’t mind, my dear.”

  “Oh! Oh,” I shuffled my feet and tried to look as meek as I could when she addressed the doctor, who seemed pleased that he could return his attentions to me instead of Peggy. “Well …”

  “Out with it!” Mom exclaimed, patting my back. “You can be so silly sometimes!”

  I was impressed with Mom’s efforts, especially since Mom wasn’t exactly the mom type. I turned to Dr. Redburn and said, “Since I read your book and heard such wonderful things, I was hoping to have a session with you, but, when I called your office, your receptionist said you weren’t taking any more patients.”

  Dr. Redburn nodded. “Now that the book is out, I’m getting calls from everybody and anybody, so I’m taking only private referrals. Maybe you and your mother could be a package deal!”

  Mom didn’t miss a beat with her comeback: “Well, I’ll talk to my dermatologist, my trainer, and my colorist, and I’ll see if I can fit you into my schedule.”

  Meanwhile, the art students and the security guard were in the midst of a gazebo cold war. One art student whispered to another, “I bet that guard isn’t real. I bet it’s a sculpture, and they stuck a tape recorder in it. He’s just saying the same thing over and over!”

  Instead of shouting, “DON’T TOUCH THE ART!” the security guard let out a low growl.

  Dr. Redburn looked nervous. “I think it’s getting crowded in here. Let’s head out of this gazebo … installation … thing … and talk about this a little more,” he took me by the shoulder and said pointedly to Peggy, “I’ll see you next week.” He said it in a tone almost as if he were dismissing her.

  Mom air-kissed Peggy, and Peggy reciprocated. During the exchange part of Peggy’s robe got caught on one of Mom’s hoop earrings.

  “Ow,” Mom said. “Why do I have a knack for this sort of thing?”

  I made a move to disentangle them, but Dr. Redburn swept in and helped extricate the robe from the earring. As he did so, his hand brushed Peggy’s temple, and she nearly swooned with delight, so much so that her eyes almost rolled back in her head.

  Right when Peggy was distracted, Dr. Redburn guided me and Mom out of the art-damaged gazebo. I looked back at Peggy as we left, and she seemed to want to follow us, almost like a puppy, but her feet remained planted on the ground.

  CHAPTER 17

  THE PATH OF MOST RESISTANCE

  BEYOND THE GAZEBO, DR. REDBURN, Mom, and I found a reasonably quiet spot by the gift shop entrance. A waiter passed by with a tray of plastic cups each filled to the brim with white wine. Mom took one, but Dr. Redburn and I abstained. I needed to let the bourbon pass through my bloodstream so I could stay in character.

  “So, what do you do for work?” Dr. Redburn asked me.

  I wasn’t sure how much to tell him, but Mom had already gulped her wine, so she answered, “She’s in a rock band.”

  I spun to look at my mother. I wasn’t happy, but at least she didn’t spill that I was a private eye.

  Dr. Redburn smiled. “No way! I was in a band. Took a few yea
rs off before college and went on tour.”

  Mom raised her glass. “Aren’t you glad I said something? Now you two can bond!”

  I wasn’t sure how much I wanted to bond with someone I was supposed to be investigating, but having something in common might make it easier to get into his office.

  “It’s true,” I said. “What was your band’s name?” I asked.

  “The Sun-Seekers,” he replied.

  “I’ve heard of you!” I yelped. That wasn’t empty flattery. When I was a DJ at the UC Santa Cruz radio station, I got into their song “The Path of Most Resistance.” They were the kind of band that got drowned out by other, bigger bands who eventually got major-label record deals.

  Now the doctor was laughing. “You’re way too young to know of us!”

  “No, no! You were, like, psychedelic!”

  Dr. Redburn grinned. “That was why we didn’t get so far. We weren’t mad enough. What’s your band’s name?”

  “The Marquee Idols,” I replied.

  “What do you play?”

  “Lead guitar.”

  “I played bass!” he said, his eyes lighting up.

  I was stunned. Since Larry and Muriel had rejected being a Marquee Idol, the question “Do you still play?” came out of my mouth like a reflex. I quickly added, “You were good!”

  He chuckled. “For what was essentially an also-ran band, maybe.”

  Mom leaned behind me, supposedly to pick up a mini-quiche from a waiter passing by with a tray. As she took a quiche, she whispered in my ear, “Don’t forget what you’re here for.”

  The point of the trip to the museum was not to wax nostalgic over the glory days of the Sun-Seekers and turn into a shameless rock groupie. I had to schedule an appointment to find out if Dr. Redburn had anything to do with the disappearance of Sabrina Norton Buckner’s necklace.

  “I see what you’re saying,” I told Dr. Redburn. “The rock life might be too much for me, too.”

  Dr. Redburn nodded. “It’s too much for a lot of people. It’s tough for a regular person to maintain a stage persona.”

  Mom added, “That sure sounds like you, darling. Go on. Tell him more.” Then she looked at me eagerly, as if she were anxious to see what I might come up with.

  I chose to base my lies in truth. “All my problems started with a bad breakup. I can’t seem to get my mind off this guy.” Well, that was a big stretch. I limited myself to thinking about Larry only two or three times a week. Maybe a little more than that, but my mind certainly wasn’t “on” him in the strictest sense of the term. “He was in the band, too, but now that he’s gone, I have stage fright. Everyone else in the band wants to book a gig, but the thought of playing without him…. It’s terrifying! I’m worried I won’t be able to play again!”

  I thought I spotted even more interest in the doctor’s warm, dark eyes when I made clear that I was single. The music connection didn’t hurt, either. I knew that I had at least one introductory appointment with him all locked up.

  Dr. Redburn had pulled a small notepad from his pocket, and he began to scribble on it intently, as if I had said the most fascinating words he’d heard all day. “Clancy—you don’t mind if I call you by your first name, do you?”

  “Of course not!” I replied, happy that he was already dropping formalities.

  “Clancy,” he continued, “I think we can easily overcome your feelings of anxiety. But I have to warn you of something—you might find my methods unorthodox. Is that all right with you?”

  “I love unorthodox!” Mom exclaimed.

  I shot Mom a look. Sometimes she could be too helpful. “Unorthodox in what way?” I asked.

  Dr. Redburn seemed to clam up a little bit. “I can’t say too much about it. Let me put it this way—I like to get to the root of people’s problems very quickly.”

  “I think I can handle that,” I replied. I thought I heard Mom snicker a little bit and blushed.

  Then he flipped to a clean page of his notepad and wrote a time and address on it. “Do you think you can be here at this time tomorrow? It’s a little early, but I know I can fit you in then. Just tell my receptionist that you’re an exception.” The doctor smiled, exposing a set of flawless, even teeth. “I really must be going. Remember, 10:00 am tomorrow morning.” And he was gone.

  Mom and I watched Dr. Redburn cross the room, only to be hugged by yet another overzealous patient. Mom took another sip of her wine and toasted me. “Well, my darling, you just got hit on. Did you see how he looked at you? See what happens when you dress up a little?” Then Mom’s face darkened, and she leaned in. “He has an effect on Peggy, doesn’t he? That Peggy, you’d think she lived in his office.”

  “Really?” I looked back toward the gazebo and saw Peggy and her blonde wig, standing outside the gazebo as Dr. Redburn worked the room. She looked like she was about to cry.

  Mom shuddered. “Peggy almost joined this yoga cult. She ran away to India, and her family had to hire one of those deprogrammers to get her back.”

  “Maybe her parents should ask for a refund,” I said.

  “That’s exactly what her mom told me! It’s horrifying. Peggy’s not that much older than you. God, I’m glad you’re not like her. If you acted that lost at your age, I’d spank your butt.”

  “Uh, thanks. I think.”

  Mom stared into her drink, which was almost empty. “I’m surprised Peggy’s here. I heard a rumor they had her in a mental hospital after India. It says a lot about the doctor to fix her up enough so she can be in public.”

  I grabbed a cup of wine from a tray passing by and pressed it into Mom’s hand. “Here. Enjoy. I think it is time to talk to Peggy.”

  “Sure, leave me alone here …” Mom said. But she was kidding because, soon enough, one of the dumpy guys with the Cosby sweaters swooped in and asked her if she was a movie star, and Mom began to bloom again.

  CHAPTER 18

  BOUNDARIES

  PEGGY TURNED AND TOOK THE stairs down toward the bathrooms, and I followed. I wasn’t the type to corner anyone in a bathroom, but there was no reason I couldn’t casually bump into Peggy when she was on the way out and strike up a conversation. I lingered around the water fountain a moment, and then Peggy emerged, with her hair fully groomed and a fresh coat of coral lipstick on her mouth.

  Despite her wacky new-age getup and monster hair, Peggy was actually cute, and a lot younger than I thought at first. When she joined our conversation in the beginning, I thought she was closer to my mom’s age, but she was probably only a few years older than me. Then again, maybe it was the lost, childish look in her eyes that made her look younger.

  Turning as if I just had a sip from the water fountain, I exclaimed, “Hello, again! Peggy, right?”

  While I never expected Peggy to remember my name during all the fundraising meet-and-greet, I was surprised that she looked at me as if she’d never seen me before. I had to say, “We met upstairs, with Dr. Redburn” before a faint light of recognition appeared in her eyes. “I’m Kit’s daughter.”

  “Oh, yes!” And then Peggy overdid it, hugging me as if I were my own mother. “So good to see you!” I began to wonder if it would be worth talking to Peggy at all because it seemed like the woman just knocked back a bottle of Valium.

  I said, “I’m so sorry if my mom and I interrupted you with Dr. Redburn upstairs. You know my mom … nothing stops her! He’s up there if you want to talk to him.”

  Peggy shook her head vigorously. “No, no. That was my fault. I tend to interrupt the doctor when he’s working, and I’ll get to see him tomorrow. I just get a little overwhelmed by him.” Her voice lowered. “He changed my life.”

  Tears sprang into her eyes, so I asked, “Would you like to sit down?” I carefully guided Peggy to a low, padded bench set up outside the bathrooms. I wished the whole room were padded.

  Peggy sat down with a long sigh, as if she’d walked to India and back. The look in her eyes resembled the emptiness that occasional
ly flashed in Sabrina’s eyes during her first visit to my office. She told me, “I hope you don’t mind. I just get so emotional thinking about what Dr. Redburn has done for me.”

  “You’re not the only one. He’s done a lot for another one of my mom’s friends,” I said. “You know Sabrina Buckner?”

  Peggy’s face twisted up. “Yes.”

  I remembered the list Sabrina made of people who could recommend Dr. Redburn’s character. Peggy’s name wasn’t on it. “Oh? Did something happen?” I asked. “She’s the one who recommended Dr. Redburn to me.”

  “Really?” Peggy asked. “I thought she wanted him all to herself. That woman thinks she can buy him.”

  I wondered if Peggy knew about Sabrina’s plans to give Dr. Redburn her two-million-dollar necklace. That was a surefire way to earn loyalty for life. I wondered what kind of donations Peggy made to Dr. Redburn’s cause. “Buy him? How so?”

  Peggy’s eyes darted back and forth. “Oh, she just throws money at him. He has a foundation to raise self-esteem, especially for students in the public schools.”

  “Sabrina mentioned that to me,” I said. That’s where her necklace was supposed to go. “It sounds wonderful.” It actually sounded silly, but I played along.

  “Yes! It is! I’ve donated to the cause, and every time I donate, she donates more. That’s good for the foundation, but she’s not really working for her enlightenment. She thinks she can buy enlightenment, and that’s the wrong way to go about it.” Then Peggy shook her head. “And, to think, I’m the one who told her about Dr. Redburn! And this is how she thanks me!”

  She started waving her hands around at this point, so I scooted down the bench to give her space. She must have sensed that I was a little freaked out, so she said, “Oh, I’m not saying you shouldn’t see him. You seem like the kind of person he’d like to talk to.”