by Roslyn Woods
“I’m on my way. I’ll be there in ten minutes,” said Shell.
“Well, we’re waiting for the police right now, so you might have to wait through that if you get here really fast.”
“I don’t mind. I’ll be right there,” she said.
Margie was glad Shell was on the way. Donald Carter would have stayed and driven her to Shell’s after the police left, and that might have been nice, but hadn’t he already made it clear she was a charity case? Didn’t he deal with people who had serious problems and maybe made bad choices all the time? What was she thinking?
When she hung up with Shell she noticed that Donald was examining the books in her bookcase. “You like Edna St. Vincent Millay?” he asked.
“I like sonnets,” was all she said.
“And you’ve got E.E. Cummings and Frost, of course, but I also see Maxine Kumin here next to Sylvia, and here’s Anne Bradstreet, Longfellow, Conrad Aiken, Mary Oliver, Marianne Moore, Louise Bogan, Billy Collins—”
“My brother started sending me poetry books when I was in high school. Every birthday. Every Christmas. I could always expect a good book of poems.”
“Interesting brother,” said Donald, picking up a volume and thumbing through the pages.
“Yes. I think he is.”
Donald looked up at Margie. “Are you doing okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” she answered stoically, determined not to appear weak. “The police should be here in a few minutes. I want to thank you for helping me so much tonight. I—”
“I haven’t done anything anyone else wouldn’t do.”
“Not true. I appreciate it.”
She realized she was looking at him with more intensity than she ought right then. He would think she had a crush on him. Oh God, he must be so used to it. She decided the best course of action would be to keep talking and look away from his face.
“My friend Shell had her ringer off tonight. She was out sleuthing with a boyfriend and he insisted she turn off her her phone while they had dinner—”
“So she didn’t hear when you called. I’m glad I was there, but you would have been fine. You would have waited for the cab and you’d have gotten home okay and called the police. It’s just better to not be alone when things are strange like this.”
“Yes,” she agreed.
“How will you get to work tomorrow?” he asked.
“I’m sure Shell will take me. Or I’ll take the bus.”
“Well, if you have problems, I hope you’ll call me,” he said, pulling his wallet from inside his jacket pocket and finding a business card which he handed to her.
Like I’m going to call you to ask you to drive me to work.
She looked at the card. Donald Carter, Ph.D.—Clinical Psychologist—Travis County Emotional Wellbeing. “Do you think I’m going to crack up over this?” she asked.
Donald chuckled briefly. “No. That’s just got my contact information on it.”
“Thanks,” she said, the ghost of a smile on her lips.
“Would it bother you if I checked on you?” he asked.
“You shouldn’t feel obligated,” she answered, trying to sound aloof.
“I told you I wasn’t making a pass at you,” he said. “I told you I’m avoiding relationships, so don’t worry that I’m—”
“Not at all. We both feel the same way about relationships.”
“But I wouldn’t mind being friends, Margie Maxwell,” he said.
“Oh.” I can’t read you.
“So, maybe you can give me your phone number,” he added.
“Sure,” she said, and he took his phone out and added her to his contacts while she rattled off her number.
Margie packed a few things while Donald continued to look through her bookshelf. The police arrived before Shell did. The officers walked around the house, took photos of the broken windows, and shook their heads while Margie and Donald told them about their evening.
“And you say your boyfriend came by here and threatened you yesterday?” the older of the two cops asked.
“Ex-boyfriend,” she corrected. “And yes. He pounded on the front door for a while and then went and hammered on the backdoor for a while, too. He was cursing and saying he was going to make me very sorry that I’d put his stuff on the porch and that women didn’t get away with breaking up with him.”
“And you say you’d already changed the locks by then?”
“Yes. He tried his key in both locks. I’d been trying to get him to move out for a while. Yesterday I just decided I’d move him out myself.”
“And it’s your house?”
“I lived here alone before we started seeing each other. I’m the one who pays the rent. He’s never given me a dime. He’d only been here a few days when I told him it wasn’t going to work out for us, but I couldn’t get him to move out.”
“So you moved him out, and then he threatened you, and it seemed like he was the one who broke your windshield?”
“There’s no doubt, officer. I saw him at the lecture hall, and when I went outside with Dr. Carter he tried to run us down.”
“You’re sure it was him?”
“How many people have yellow Corvettes?”
“Okay. I’ve got his name and license plate, but you don’t know where he’s staying. Can you tell us where he works?”
“Yes. He works at Jerry’s Artarama on—” she began.
“We know where it is. You know his hours?” asked the officer.
“They vary, but he usually goes in at ten or so on the days he works. It’s just part-time.”
“He can get by on that?” the younger officer piped in.
“People who don’t pay rent get by on a lot less than real people,” Margie answered. “I imagine he gets money from his folks, too.”
“You’ll need to appear at the courthouse tomorrow morning,” the older officer said, “and we’ll send in the evidence report that we have. We’ll put it as a high priority, so you shouldn’t have to wait long. Not that yours will be the only restraining order considered. Anyway, judges issue orders on behalf of anyone with a credible complaint, and you’ve got one, but there isn’t any proof about the other stuff. He won’t be arrested.”
“But he’s dangerous,” Donald said, frowning.
“I’m sorry to say, we can’t just throw people in jail based on hearsay, even if we believe it.” Then turning back to Margie he added, “And Miss, you’re going to need a place to stay. You shouldn’t stay here until this is sorted out.”
“Yes, I know,” she answered. “I have a friend who’s coming over to pick me up.”
Just then they heard a knock at the door, and Margie hurried to let Shell in.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” her friend asked as she came through the door.
“I’m okay. We’re just winding this up,” Margie answered.
“We’ll file our report,” the older officer continued after nodding briefly at Shell, “and you’ll need to go down to the courthouse at nine tomorrow morning. Can you do that?”
“Sure. I think so,” said Margie. “I’ll have to get the day off work.”
“I can take you, if you like,” Donald said, and then rushed to add, “if your friend has class or something.”
“Thanks, but that’s asking too much,” said Margie. “If Shell’s busy I can take a cab.”
“I’d kind of like to see that this is being taken care of,” Donald argued. “We were both nearly run down tonight by this guy.”
“Well,” said the older officer, “I don’t think your testimony will be needed for this preliminary restraining order, but it’s possible the judge might ask you a question.”
“Then I should be there,” Donald said.
“I don’t know. Are you sure?” Margie asked for the second time that evening.
“I’m sure,” he replied.
Chapter 13
Shell didn’t know what to make of Jeremy’s meltdown. She had considered h
im to have ego problems for a while now, but she hadn’t thought he was insane. Hearing from Micky Lindstrom that Jeremy thought he was a spy doing top secret work on the same day that he destroyed Margie’s windshield and the front windows of her house made her completely change her view of him.
“Wow. I almost can’t believe he’s gone so berserk,” she said to Margie as she drove toward her apartment on South Congress.
“You and me both. I didn’t tell you how unnerved I was when he was banging on my doors and windows yesterday, but I didn’t think he’d go this far. I thought I was overreacting. Poor Tabitha hid under the bed! Now I realize you were right about getting a restraining order.”
“Well, at least you’ll get one now.”
“And I have to go get Tabitha tomorrow at five. I don’t even have a car because that creep—”
“I’ll take you to pick up Tabitha if you don’t have your car by then. We can call the car people in the morning to learn about the progress.”
“It doesn’t usually take long to change a windshield. I just couldn’t drive it as smashed up as it was, and it was too late to get it fixed tonight.”
“Wow,” Shell repeated, shaking her head in bewilderment over the way Jeremy had behaved.
“I think I’d have really freaked out if Donald Carter hadn’t been there,” Margie continued. “He actually kept me from stepping onto the pavement when Jeremy was about to run us down.”
“I’m so glad he was there. You introduced us, but who is this guy?”
“I just met him tonight. I was avoiding sitting where Jeremy could harass me, so I moved from sitting by Anna and her friends to sitting by him. He looked big and strong, and I figured Jeremy wouldn’t chance trying to bother me if I was sitting by a big guy like that.”
“And you say he’s a psychologist?”
“Yes. From New Hampshire. He moved here a couple of years ago.”
“He looks a tad bit older. He’s not married?”
“He’s my brother’s age, and he’s a widower,” Margie said.
“Oh. Do you know what happened to his wife?”
“Car accident.”
“Awful.”
“Yeah,” Margie answered, looking out the car window. “He actually seems like a good person.” Even if he does have to point out how uninterested he is in me.
“He’s nice-looking,” Shell observed.
“You think so?”
“Don’t tell me you didn’t notice,” Shell replied, giving Margie a sidelong glance as she stopped at the intersection of Oltorf and South Congress.
“I noticed. I’m just not sure everybody has the same taste.”
“And he’s smart?” Shell continued.
“Really smart. And he reads poetry.”
“You interested?” Shell wanted to know. After only shaking hands with the guy and being in the same room with him for fifteen minutes, Shell wasn’t sure what to think of Donald Carter.
“No. Remember what I said about relationships? I’m not getting interested in anybody for a long, long time.”
“I’m not sure it’s something you get to decide. Things like that just happen to people,” she said. Then she added, “Or so I’ve heard.”
Shell’s impression of Donald Carter only improved the next morning when he came by the apartment to take Margie to the courthouse, and she felt grateful that he was willing to be a witness for her in front of a judge today. It didn’t hurt that he was providing a ride for her friend when she was going to be understandably nervous and upset.
The night before, she and Margie had looked up Travis County Emotional Wellbeing on the computer. There was Donald Carter’s picture with three other psychologists—an older gentleman named Edward Steinberg, a young woman named Geraldine Engstrom, and another man about Donald Carter’s age, Thomas Rios. “Ph.D.” was clearly printed beside each name. It seemed his credentials were real, and Shell was reassured that Margie’s new friend was legit.
After the two of them had left, Shell looked out her living room window and down into the parking lot. Donald Carter was opening the passenger door of his silver pickup truck and helping Margie step up into it.
And he’s a gentleman. Nice, she thought as her phone started buzzing.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Shell, it’s Gina.” Her voice sounded weak. “You got time to meet after your class this morning?”
“Sure. I was just about to head out. Where do you want to meet?”
“Same place as last time?” Gina asked.
“Okay. See you at about eleven?”.
“I think that’ll work,” Gina answered, sounding even more quavery than before.
“Gina, are you okay?”
“I don’t know. I’ll tell you about it when I see you.”
It had been an unusually gray winter, and Shell was glad to see some sunshine now that her perspective on the world had taken a sudden turn toward gloomy. Today her “class” consisted of a meeting with Dr. Moreno to go over her independent study of Berthe Morisot’s earliest works. They were to meet in Dr. Moreno’s office, and Shell was somewhat anxious about seeing her instructor.
“Come in, Michelle,” said the sixtyish woman with gray hair and round physique as she ushered her student into her office and closed the door.
Today the older woman’s hair looked more controlled than it normally did. She usually wore her long locks big and loose, but today they were twisted into a clip at the back of her head, and the large earrings she usually wore had been traded for simple, silver hoops. Her attire was a bit more subdued as well. Her blouse was indeed a peasant top—typical for her—but it was black and it hung loosely over a nearly full-length skirt with a small, black and white print.
“I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed,” she began, signaling Shell to seat herself in the chair across from her desk, “if you think I want to talk about Berthe Morisot today.”
“No?” Shell asked, positioning her backpack in the empty chair adjacent to hers. She imagined she knew what was coming.
“I’ve heard from several of the students at your co-op. They’ve been telling me that you’re the person who found Doris Leone’s body. Is it true?”
So her guess was right. She was going to spend her session talking about Dr. Leone today, and she didn’t mind since it was all she could think about anyway. “Yes,” Shell answered. “I had an appointment to talk to her about my work. When I got there she had already…” her voice trailed off, unsure as she was of what word to use. Gone? Passed on? Transitioned?
“Already died?” Dr. Moreno said gently.
“Yes.”
“Have the police instructed you to keep what you found quiet?”
“No. I’ve spoken with a few people who I believed would be discreet.”
“So do you feel comfortable talking to me about it?” she asked, leaning forward and looking intently at Shell, “You see, Doris was a friend of mine. A good friend. I sort of took her under my wing when she came to UT four years ago, and we had a definite bond.”
“I imagine guesses are spreading like wildfire, and I really don’t know much,” said Shell, “but I understand if you’re wanting to know what I saw at the crime scene.”
“I do,” she answered, and Shell saw tears filling her teacher’s eyes. “I want to know what happened to her.”
Shell relayed her experience of finding the body to Dr. Moreno, and she watched her face as she spoke.
“A palette knife?” the older woman asked, frowning incredulously while dabbing an eye with tissues. “I thought she must have been shot.”
“No,” Shell answered. “You know the kind of palette knife with a bend in the part that leads up to the blade?” she asked.
“I think you mean the crank,” her teacher answered, still sounding stunned.
“There was a table in the classroom with lots of painting tools. There were four or five containers holding knives and brushes.”
“Oh,” Dr. Moreno said, ta
king a breath. “This is harder than I thought it would be,” she added, standing up and looking out the office window. “Do you think there was a struggle?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know how I would tell. She lay on her side with one arm over her head, but I think she might have tried to block her fall.”
“Or someone could have arranged her body,” Dr. Moreno suggested, turning her head and looking back at Shell again.
“I suppose that’s possible.”
“Was there—” she said, stopping for a moment before going on, “a lot of blood?”
“There was a pool beneath her. I don’t know how much there was. I wouldn’t know how to guess. Honestly, I ran out of there as quickly as I could and called the police. But it wasn’t all over the room or anything.”
Dr. Moreno sat down again and folded her hands on the desk in front of her. “Michelle, can you tell me what Doris—Dr. Leone—was like as a teacher?” she asked.
Shell looked at the older woman and read what looked to her like sincerity in her expression. “I thought she was a great lecturer. And she was charming and enthusiastic and smart. I thought her instruction in painting with oils was the best I’d had since I came here. I learned so much from her—”
“And her mood?”
“Her mood?”
“Did she seem like a happy person when she was teaching?”
“Mostly,” Shell answered thoughtfully, “I would say, yes, though there were times when she came into class seeming a bit quiet before she warmed up to the subject of the day. In general, I would say she was very friendly and excited about art. I loved going to her classes. Aesthetic Theory, too, but painting was just something I looked forward to all week.”
“Yes, I think art was, perhaps, one of the few things that brought her happiness since, oh gee, I don't know when.”
If what Dr. Moreno was saying was true, it meant that Dr. Leone had been confiding in her older friend. “Her marriage?” Shell asked tentatively.
“I think so, but she thought she was bipolar anyway, so she tended to be manic in some environments, and ultra-low in others. I’m telling you this because, you see, the other teachers didn’t really know her well, and frankly, I think there was some professional jealousy. No one in the department had the kind of following Doris had. Of course now,” Dr. Moreno added bitterly, “now everyone is broken hearted that the woman they cold-shouldered is gone.”
