Fan Mail

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  “First things first. Great job getting the runner on Thursday.”

  “Caught him at a gas station. He was driving on fumes.”

  “Funny how cars don’t run forever. Patience is a virtue, I always say.” Max pushed a sheet of paper in my direction. “So today, we have a garbological investigation.”

  “Not again,” I moaned. “You know that’s my least favorite thing.”

  “It’s a nasty business, but someone has to do it. Yaz has a bum knee.” Yaz Yazdani, a former marine, had seen action overseas. “And Darcy refuses. You know I can’t force her.” Darcy Doherty, the more senior of our two investigators, was an expert at tracking down money trails. When not working, she was skydiving. “Use gloves and a clothespin.”

  I scanned the page in front of me, noting directions to a target’s house not far from the office as well as arrival times of housekeepers and a cadre of delivery people. “Who are we raiding?”

  “A woman whose ex-husband thinks she’s pocketing some of the profits from their mutually owned company.”

  “How are we supposed to find that in her garbage?”

  In the past few months, my duties had expanded from being a process server to tailing people and Dumpster diving; however, there were some aspects of my job I didn’t understand. Going through someone’s discards was one of them. On my first garbological adventure, I’d climbed into a Dumpster outside an apartment building to search for evidence of an extramarital affair and realized too late that, even though there was a ladder on the outside of the container, an exit ladder was not attached to the inside. After a moment of panic, my brain kicked into gear, and I realized I could pile garbage bags on top of each other and scale my way out. Because of that fateful foray, I always carried an extra set of clothing and shoes in my car.

  “Look for receipts for expensive items,” Max said. “Things a woman on a moderate budget can’t afford. Perfume or jewelry. Vacation memos. They should be cash receipts. She hasn’t charged a cent in months.” My aunt rose and fetched a tin of brownies from the kitchen counter. “Almost forgot to offer you one of these. Just in case you’re in the mood. Double-double chocolate. Sinful.” She placed the tin on the table and moved to another desk to review a stack of mail. “FYI, it’s possible our client might be imagining things.”

  “Got it.” It wasn’t my job to diagnose the client.

  Max tossed a few envelopes in front of me along with a letter opener. “Before you head out, let’s get some of this miserable paperwork out of the way.”

  “First, I need to discuss the case I want to take on.”

  “Don’t keep me hanging. Speak.”

  I twisted in my chair to meet her gaze. “Did you hear about the doctor who was killed?”

  “Kristin Fisher. It’s all over the news.”

  “She was my doctor.”

  “Dang.” Max dumped the rest of the mail on the table. “I’ll admit I’m not psychic and I don’t have your family’s Washoe blood”—Max had married my uncle following her anthropology excursion to South America—“but when I saw Gloria Morning report on the murder, somehow I knew you’d be involved.”

  I wasn’t psychic, either, but Washoe Indians, a peaceful tribe that had inhabited the Lake Tahoe area before settlers moved in, were known to be quite sentient, and I was one-eighth Washoe. My great-grandmother Blue Sky had been one hundred percent Washoe. My great-grandfather, an Irishman, had fallen hard for her the moment he’d set eyes on her.

  “How did Dr. Fisher die?” Max asked. “Gloria didn’t go into details about the murder.”

  “I doubt the sheriff has told her or anyone in the media anything.”

  “I assume you’ve spoken with Nick, though.”

  “The murderer stabbed her with a scalpel.”

  My aunt moaned. “How is Nick going to feel about you poking around?” The moment the two of them had met, they had hit it off. Nick appreciated smart, savvy women.

  “He’s not going to like it one bit.”

  “That’s what I thought.” She aimed a finger at me. “Think long and hard about that, sugar.”

  “It will be difficult but I’ve got to do this.”

  “Because of your folks. Because of Vikki.”

  How well she knew me. My parents’ murders had gone unsolved. Group therapy had been a way to heal myself after their deaths. Luckily, my friend Vikki’s murder had been solved. That had helped me find a modicum of peace.

  “What else did Nick allow you to know?” my aunt asked.

  I told her about the mess of files and the chaos. “Other than that, he was pretty tight-lipped.”

  “I’m surprised he shared as much as he did.” Max sat in her chair and folded her arms on the tabletop. “Did he mention that there were additional murders with the same MO?”

  “Using a scalpel?”

  “Using a sharp implement.”

  “No. Why?”

  Max thumped her chest. “I feel it. In here. There will be.”

  “But the murderer used an instrument found in the office, which means it wasn’t premeditated. It was a crime of passion.”

  “Oh?” Max smirked. “Now you’re an expert?”

  My cheeks warmed.

  She patted my shoulder. “Listen, if you’re going to investigate, you have to promise something. No gathering evidence without permission. No visiting the crime scene unaccompanied. You want to ask questions? Fine. You want to delve into the doctor’s personal life, go ahead. That’s open territory. But—”

  I raised a hand. “I know the parameters.”

  “What do you think you can add to the investigation?”

  “I knew Dr. Fisher.”

  Max clucked her tongue. “Did you eat with her? Talk dirt with her? Were you best friends with her like you were with Vikki? No.” She tapped the table with her fingertip. “You want to help because you hate that murderers exist and many get away with it. I understand that. I feel the same, but—”

  “It’s more than that. I admired Dr. Fisher. She was kind, intelligent, and caring. She truly wanted to help her patients. We weren’t cogs in the machinery to her. She asked about our lives. She . . .” Emotions caromed inside me. “She didn’t deserve this.”

  “Nobody does.”

  Chapter 4

  Around noon, I carried out my garbological exploration but didn’t come up with any tangible documentation corroborating our client’s theory. I did find a bunch of machine-shredded receipts, so I collected what I could and brought it to the office. Max would have to determine whether we were getting paid enough to reassemble the documents. It could take days or weeks.

  Later, as I was finishing my report, my stomach grumbled. A power bar and a muffin—even one as large as I’d downed—were hardly enough to keep a grasshopper alive. I slapped the folder closed and went to the refrigerator, where Max kept plenty of fruit and yogurt in stock.

  As I was reaching for a peach, the telephone rang. I turned to answer it.

  “I’ll get it,” Max shouted. She recited the name of the agency and then listened. “Well, hello, lover.” She tucked the phone between chin and shoulder and giggled like a schoolgirl. “You are so slick.” Knowing Max didn’t have a boyfriend, I could only guess who was on the other end. “I would be the luckiest woman alive if you did.” She let out another string of giggles, followed by a smooch into the receiver. “Yes, I’ll see you soon.” She turned to me. “Lover boy is asking for you.” She thrust the receiver in my direction.

  I grabbed it from her, mock scorn in my glare.

  Reeling with laughter, she slipped outside for a vape cigarette break.

  “Hi, Nick,” I said. “You just made my aunt’s day.”

  “She made mine. Listen”—he sounded as tired as he had last night—“my car broke down. The radiator blew.” His aging Wrangler had been running on borrowed time. “Can you give me a lift after I get off work? The service station won’t be done fixing the hunk of junk until tomorrow morning, and
everybody else is out on assignment.”

  “Will you stay for dinner?”

  “Of course.” We spoke for a few minutes. He avoided discussing the murder and I, chicken that I was, didn’t mention my plan to investigate. Certain conversations were better had in person.

  When I replaced the receiver, Max returned. “Is everything okay?”

  I filled her in.

  “Did you tell him about, you know . . .”

  “No. I will. Promise.”

  Max stored her vape cigarette in a drawer and popped a Tic Tac in her mouth. “Do you plan to cook him dinner so you can soften him up before you break the news?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Then if I were you, I’d barbecue. Men love a good barbecue.” Max bustled across the room and reached into a cupboard. She pulled down a packet of three-by-five cards, withdrew a couple, and placed them under the Xerox machine cover. When the copying was done, she shoved the printed sheet into my hand. “Here’s a couple of recipes. My favorite sauce. Finger-licking good. The other one . . . beans to die for.”

  I received the recipes gratefully and packed up my things. It was nearly two p.m. “Right now, I need to get to the middle school in record time.”

  “When is graduation for Candace?” she asked. “I forgot to mark it on my calendar.”

  “Thursday, next week. I’ll send you a text.”

  “About investigating the Fisher murder,” she said. “Any sign of danger, you back off.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  • • •

  When I picked up Candace, she begged to go to Waverly’s house to hang out. Waverly’s mother would bring her home. I could tell the summer itch was near, so I agreed, but only with the proviso that she come home in time for dinner and studying.

  As I drove off, I dialed Dr. Fisher’s office, hoping Detective King hadn’t concluded her investigation and closed the place down. I wanted a referral to another doctor. On the third ring, the office assistant, Heather, picked up. Quickly, I offered my apologies for her loss, and then I asked to whom she was referring Dr. Fisher’s three hundred-plus patients. She recited a name and a number. I thanked her and was about to hang up when I heard her stifle tears.

  Knowing the sorrow she must be suffering, I asked if she would like to meet for coffee. Though we hadn’t spoken more than a few words over the course of the last year, she jumped at the chance. She was getting off work in a half hour. We agreed on meeting at View by the Lake, a charming café located in a mall in the center of Tahoe City. I’d become a regular at the place because my book club meetings were held at the adjoining bookstore.

  On the way, I phoned the doctor that Heather had referred and made an appointment for tomorrow morning. Having the appointment didn’t put me at ease about my situation, but at least it was a step forward to getting answers.

  When I arrived at the café, the heavenly aroma of coffee wafted to me. I spotted Heather sitting at the corner table, her bony shoulders jutting from a snug tank top, her eyes red-rimmed and hair tousled. She caught sight of me and waved.

  I weaved between gingham-covered tables. “Hi, Heather,” I said as I sat in the chair opposite hers.

  She seemed fragile and ready to crumble, like many of my previous therapy patients at our first meeting. Numerous used tissues lay wadded on the table. She gestured to the half-empty mug of black coffee resting on a napkin. “Can I get you a cup? The waitress said to serve ourselves.”

  “Sure. Black.” I could’ve fetched it for myself, but making the offer had appeared to relax her.

  She shuffled across the floor, her feet barely leaving the wood, and poured a mug of steaming coffee from a large silver thermos. When she set the cup on the table, it nearly toppled over. I righted it and mopped up the splash.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  “It’s okay. Sit. Tell me how you’re doing.” I kept my voice gentle and warm. Coaxing a grief-stricken person to talk required sensitivity.

  “Did you know Dr. Fisher was my mother?” Heather asked.

  “I had no idea.” I couldn’t see the resemblance. Heather had a thin, straight nose; her mother’s nose had been broader and turned up. Heather’s eyes were blue; the doctor’s had been a dark hazel. “I guess I don’t know your last name.”

  “It’s Bogart.”

  “Does the sheriff know about your relationship to—” I hesitated.

  “To my mother? I think so. I can’t remember if I told them. I can’t remember everything I’ve said.” Heather grabbed a used tissue and mopped her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I can’t seem to stop . . .” She rotated a finger in front of her eyes.

  I reached for her hand, but she recoiled. “Have you spoken with anyone, perhaps a therapist, about what happened?” I asked. “I know what you’re going through. My parents were murdered.”

  “Both of them?”

  “Mm-hmm. Almost thirteen years ago.” The memory still cut me to the core.

  Heather rolled her lower lip between her teeth. “No therapist. Not yet.”

  “I’ve got the name of a good one.”

  “No. Thanks.”

  I took a sip of coffee. “Have you spoken with your father?”

  “Edward Bogart will never be my father.”

  I was bewildered by the animosity in her tone.

  “I’m a sperm bank baby. After my mother had me, she met Edward.”

  “How old were you when they married?”

  “One. He adopted me, but they divorced eight years later and he renounced the adoption.”

  Ouch. That had to hurt. What kind of man was he? I’d assumed Kristin Fisher and her ex had been married a long time because, as Candace had said, she’d met him at the office. Possibly it was one of those marriages where after the couple divorced they became better friends, the trials and tribulations of married life no longer an issue.

  Heather coughed out a sad laugh. “Talk about irony. She gave me his name and then changed her own back.”

  “You could change yours legally.”

  “I suppose I could. I’ll think about it.”

  “Why did they divorce?”

  “Edward treasured his career and wanted to devote all his time to it,” Heather explained. “Also, he decided he didn’t want the burden of children.”

  “I see,” I murmured, though I didn’t, really. He was a pediatric doctor. He ought to enjoy children. Maybe he was like the grandparent who loved being with the grandchildren but couldn’t wait to hand them back to the parents.

  “Let me rephrase that. He didn’t want the burden of me. He expected perfection. I couldn’t rise to the occasion.”

  By the age of nine? What a jerk.

  Heather ripped open a packet of sugar, dumped the whole thing into her coffee, and licked her finger in order to mop up sprinkles that had fallen on the table.

  After a long silence, I said, “So after they divorced, your mother raised you as a single parent?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Another thought occurred to me. Was it possible Heather killed her mother? No, my gut told me she was innocent. I doubted she could have overpowered her mother. She was at least twenty pounds lighter and she was a bundle of frayed nerves. Also, Nick said she had an alibi; she had been with her boyfriend. Granted, her boyfriend might lie on her behalf, but I didn’t get that vibe.

  “Heather, your mother rang me that morning. I know she had a habit of coming in early.”

  “Everyone knew she came in early. She was the most dedicated doctor anywhere.”

  “She’d sounded out of breath on the phone. Do you know why?”

  Suddenly, it dawned on me that she might not have called me to share test results. Maybe she had reached out because I was a private investigator and she’d wanted me to help her with an issue. But then the killer showed up and ended the call.

  Everyone knew she came in early.

  “Finding your mother must have been a terrible shock,” I said. “You were too shaken to notice muc
h else, but can you remember whether anything other than the mess of files was different from normal? Was one particular file separate from the rest? Were cabinets unlocked or hanging open?”

  She shuddered; her teeth began to chatter. “I told the police—”

  “The sheriff,” I corrected.

  “Right, them. All of the drawers were locked when I got there. Mother secured everything at night. It was just the files on the floor and the scalpel. It didn’t belong.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It wasn’t ours.”

  So I was wrong and my aunt was right. The killer had brought the weapon along, meaning the murder was premeditated.

  “Where did the sheriff find the scalpel?” I asked.

  “Under the examination table. It took three of the sheriff’s men to move it.”

  Aha. That was why the killer had left it behind.

  Heather picked up a tissue and shredded it in a matter of seconds. “The blood—” She drew in a sharp breath. “There was so much of it.”

  I reached for her hand again. This time she allowed me to take hold. “Heather, this is very important. Are you sure the scalpel wasn’t from your office?”

  “Yes. It had a white handle. All of ours are silver. We get them from a supply company.” The shivering ceased and tears resumed.

  “I really think you should consider seeing a therapist. You’d like the one my niece goes to.” It was the doctor Candace had been seeing to discuss her fight with bulimia. “She can help you through this.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’ll give you her number and you decide, but it would be good for you to talk to someone. You’ve suffered a severe shock.” I wrote the psychiatrist’s number on my business card and handed it to her. “Is anybody helping you with funeral arrangements?”

  “Edward said he’d do it.” So at least she had spoken to the guy. “He’s in my mother’s will.”

  “She didn’t exclude him after the divorce?”

  Heather shook her head.

  “You’ll need to consult a lawyer, too.”

  “I didn’t kill her.”

  I smiled gently. “You’ll need a lawyer to help with your mother’s estate.”