Deep brown leather chairs and an oversized sofa assure family and guests that they will fit right in. Not to worry if they spill a drink or doze off. They are still welcome. My only contribution to this area was a decent reading lamp wherever I could stick one. I overruled Keith when he had commented that the bulbs were so bright airplanes would mistake our house for the local runway. I didn’t care, but added dimmer switches, just to keep the peace.
Parts of this massive three-story house are over 100 years old and came with the marriage as did the farm and the stepchildren and the family complications. This is a suicide’s house, so by rights, no one should be comfortable here. Keith’s unstable tormented first wife was an artist who couldn’t survive Kansas. Instead I’ve always felt that Regina’s ghost applauded my efforts to survive the isolation and devastating winds that sweep across the prairie.
Aunt Dorothy was reading the commonplace book. I had left it on the table next to my chair.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said. “This is fascinating.”
“Isn’t it? The poor child.”
“What became of him?”
“I don’t know. My mind has been on other things, as you well know.”
She laid the book aside. “I’m so looking forward to meeting the famous Josie Albright. I often refer to her work for information about abnormal psychology.”
“She is quite well published. I’m awfully proud of her. She’s a fan of yours, by the way. She’s read everything you’ve ever written and is quite excited that you will be here this weekend.”
“She’s very kind.”
“Can I help with this wonderful meal you’ve put together? We don’t intend for you to be a live-in cook, you know.”
She rose. “There’s nothing for you to do. We won’t start eating until your sister gets here.” Her eyes were alight with curiosity but I forestalled any questions about the meeting.
“My sister and Harold. Her friend from Manhattan. He teaches too.”
“Friend? No romance?”
I shook my head. “No. Just friends. He was included on the task force because he’s helped in Carlton County before. So he knows some of the people here. Plus, he’s retired FBI and very sharp.”
She didn’t follow up on this thread and I was glad. I still felt a deep pang when I thought of Josie and romance. She and Keith’s son, Tom, began a doomed affair last summer that threatened to tear the family apart. Josie had called it off when she realized the impossibility of making it work on a permanent basis.
Headlights brightened the lane leading to our house. “They’re coming now. Wait until you meet Tosca.”
We went to greet them and to my relief, Tosca sized up Dorothy immediately and allowed herself to be picked up. The little dog is an infallible judge of character. She even greeted Dorothy with a lick on the face. After the exchange of introductions, Dorothy put Tosca down on the floor and bustled off to the stove. Keith collected coats and took drink orders. He and Harold settled in chairs by the fire and Josie and I joined Dorothy in the kitchen. We sat at the table while we watched her work.
“Are you worn out?” I asked, because Josie looked exhausted. I knew she was not in the mood to talk and I hoped Dorothy wouldn’t push her.
“I’m fine. But can we just eat here in the kitchen? Then I’m going to hit the sack. It’s been a long trip and a long day.”
I nodded. “I want to go to bed early too. Is your violin still in the car? I think you should bring it in so it won’t get too cold.”
“Good idea. But the last thing I want to do is play tonight. I can’t even stand the thought of it.”
Dorothy told the men supper was ready. I smiled. She usually said “dinner.” I had to give her credit. She had adapted to Kansas ways already.
“Well, does someone want to fill me in?” Dorothy’s question seemed to hover heavily in the air. No one spoke.
Then Josie cleared her throat and began, “Keith, Dorothy, I know you both want to hear about the investigation from a psychological viewpoint but…” Her voice faltered. Her face went pale. “Excuse me, I’m not feeling very well.” She took a few sips of water, then rose from the table, apologized again and headed for the stairs.
Dorothy looked bewildered.
“We’ve had a rough day,” Harold explained. He proceeded to tell her and Keith about Dr. Ferguson. “Josie is an expert in her field and she didn’t want to jump up and contradict every word the man said, but short of that, there was no stopping him. He’s taking everything in the wrong direction. The hell of it was, people believed him. We could see it in their faces.”
“His being in the military, and a lieutenant colonel at that, added to his credibility. It always does. Doesn’t mean officers are always are right, though.” Keith spoke from experience, having been in Vietnam.
“Harold is right about everyone believing Dr. Ferguson. I had the feeling the team would follow him anywhere.” I rose and collected their plates and carried them to the sink.
***
I was still in my robe when Josie came down the next morning. Usually professional down to the last strand of glossy hair, I was surprised to see her in worn jeans and an old sweatshirt. She had swept her hair up in a careless bun.
Dorothy planned to come over later. Outside my kitchen window the world was solid white. The bottom of the pane was covered with frosty snow crystals. Steam from the heat in the kitchen clouded the view.
I was conscious of Josie’s every movement, but mostly her quietness.
“Sleep well?”
She answered with a slight shake of her head. I felt like I was trying to engage a stranger. There were faint blue shadows under her eyes which no amount of concealer could disguise.
Josie is more logical than I. But beneath her logic is the heart of an artist, and in fact, she had once considered a career as a concert pianist. Ultimately, she recognized that she had too many varied interests to spend hours and hours every day practicing, which is required to reach the top.
She walked to the window and began tracing hearts on the steamed windows. Then rubbed out the drawing and stood staring at the branches of the snow-laden cedar trees.
“Coffee?”
She continued to stare out the window as though she hadn’t heard. I shrugged. It didn’t matter. I knew she was overwhelmed. On edge. Josie’s clientele was elite and well-educated. She was the most fashionable psychologist in the state for people who could afford the best. I suspected her first foray into chasing down a serial killer was a hell of a lot different than reading about them in college textbooks or treating well-heeled matrons with carefully cultivated depressions.
Her one-eighty-degree turn into forensic psychology made no sense whatsoever. I could not see her fighting monsters. It was a gross misplacement of her talent. Like showing up yesterday wearing diamond earrings and a cashmere suit. On the other hand, she had always insisted on being herself, no matter what the circumstances. And if “herself” meant diamonds and designer clothes, and it bothered other people, it was their problem and none of hers.
Her “real self” had caused some complications with Keith’s family. However, the only one of Keith’s children she actively clashed with was his oldest daughter, Elizabeth.
Elizabeth, a lawyer, lived in Denver and was a passionate advocate for abused women. She wore clothes made of cloth woven by women in impoverished countries and drove an ancient Volkswagen. Elizabeth was quick to chastise Josie for any and every display of ostentatious wealth.
I poured Josie a cup of coffee anyway and placed it beside her on the windowsill. She picked it up without comment, sipped, and then made a wry face. She went to the pantry and located my lone box of overpriced nutrition-deprived cereal which I kept just for her. Smart choice. It went well with her cigarettes.
“Did you tape any of yesterday’s meeting?” she ask
ed suddenly.
“No. I didn’t think it was necessary.”
“Did you write down any of that man’s idiotic profile?”
“No.” Taken aback, I glanced at her face. Technically, she should have been the one to get Ferguson’s analysis on paper. “I asked him to send me a written report so I could send it to all the men.”
“Just my luck.” She took a couple of sips of coffee. “Then I’ll have to go by memory until we get it. I don’t want to make any mistakes with this. I assume he’ll either use e-mail or perhaps the fax.”
“E-mail. Until we get everything set up. Right now, my little corner in the sheriff’s office is the headquarters for the regional center.”
She turned. “Your little corner? Don’t tell me you are still the undersheriff?”
“Not exactly. Just in title only. Until the center is in full operation.”
“And what exactly does ‘not exactly’ mean?”
“It means I’m sort of on call, but when Sam isn’t there, the office is manned by a couple of deputies and some reserve deputies. Most of the time,” I added lamely.
“And the historical society?”
“Margaret and Jane Jordan have taken over most of the jobs. They bring anything to me they think needs special attention.”
“And Angie? Does she still live here with you and Keith?”
“No. She’s kept busy helping Father Talesbury run the foundation and sanctuary. She decided to live in one of the empty houses on the compound.”
Last year, I became embroiled in solving a grisly murder in Roswell County. In the process an ancient Spanish lady ended up willing me her priceless collection of books, a wealth of herbal wisdom, a hidden heritage of natural resources, and a lawsuit that would probably go on forever. Angie, Keith’s youngest daughter, oversaw the cultivation and sale of the plants and rare herbs that financed the work of the Francesca Diaz Research Foundation located on the land I had inherited. Researchers there studied the effects of natural healing methods in combination with traditional medicine.
Father Talesbury, the Episcopal priest who operated a shelter for recovering African child soldiers, was chairman of the board of directors and a worthy adversary against the greedy reach of the United States government.
“Dorothy is renting a little house in town. She comes out here sometimes. But basically, she’s on her own. And doing well. More than well. She might as well have hung out a sign at The Coffee Shop: Writer in Residence—Come tell her your story. She’s collecting information that people would never tell me. Maybe because I’m the undersheriff, or maybe because she just has a special way about her.”
The sunlight on the kitchen table altered, shifted briefly to a flickering shadow, then steadied.
“Whoops! Speaking of town dwellers, I think we are about to have company. Here’s Dorothy now.” We watched through the frost rimmed windows as she parked and cautiously made her way up the walk. Keith had shoveled it this morning, but it was still slick in spots.
“Hello, hello,” I called. I took her coat and hung it on a peg in our mudroom.
“I’m so glad to get inside. My house is fine, but the heat in my car is a bit spotty.”
She stomped her feet to remove excess snow, and started to take off her shoes.
“No need to do that.”
“Perhaps. But I brought extra slippers just in case. I’m eager to talk with your sister and go over a few thoughts I’ve had about the case.”
“Go right on in. She’s just finished breakfast.” Such as it was. Sugar and cigarettes.
When she entered, Dorothy glanced at the commonplace book lying on the table beside the bay window chair. Since I hadn’t officially logged it in as an acquisition at the historical society, I carried it back and forth between home and the sheriff’s office.
“When we’ve finished, I want to read that poor boy’s book some more. Did Lottie tell you about it, Josie? I think you will be really interested. It’s the most fascinating reading I’ve come across in a long time. And that’s saying something.” She folded both hands on top of the walking stick and surveyed the room.
Dorothy missed nothing and there was a quickly disguised flicker of interest when she looked at my twin who simply did not look well. “And I have some questions to ask you about the child in the book too.”
“The case first, please,” Josie said, ignoring Dorothy’s attempts at small talk. “I was too mad to talk to anyone last night. I apologize if I seemed rude. And as for Harold, he agrees with everything I am going to say but he’s beyond mad. He’s absolutely livid. We talked about it all the way on the drive back from Hays”
“Really? He didn’t look that upset when he came in last night.”
“No, he didn’t. He makes a point not to.” She filled Dorothy in on her background. “I’ve just now passed the board for my degree in forensic psychology, but Harold is an old pro. I have a large private practice and have been focused on helping people, not solving crimes. But Harold can extract information from serial killers without a flicker of disapproval on his face. He said he had never been put in such a bizarre situation before.”
“You mean the crime?”
“No. He’s seen about everything. He means a psychologist acting so inappropriately.” She dug her lighter out of her purse and looked at Dorothy. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
She no longer bothered to ask me. She already knew I minded and just didn’t give a damn. She smoked anywhere she chose anyway.
“No. I don’t mind.” Dorothy managed a little smile and I suspected she was a reformed sinner. “And by the way, would you and Lottie like some privacy?”
Josie rose and went to the cabinet containing our one and only ash tray. Out of Dorothy’s line of sight she shot me a quick questioning glance.
“No privacy needed,” I said. “Anything Josie has to say about the case, you can hear too.” With these words I had just issued Dorothy a full acceptance into the team. Beyond her formal status, she was now privy to unofficial speculation. All barriers to information had been removed. I hoped that was wise.
Dorothy’s eyes flickered with quiet gratitude. She had read me right from the very beginning. There had been a reluctance on my part to fully include her because I wasn’t sure if she could be trusted to keep her mouth shut. And I was uneasy over the number of people who were now members of the regional team investigating this case. People like Ferguson that I didn’t know from Adam’s off ox.
Josie went to the window and looked at the snow-covered cedar trees again before she sat down again. “There’s so much we need to tell you about that I hardly know where to start. First of all, what Dr. Ferguson did yesterday was so wrong that Harold had trouble just sitting there.”
“Like what?” Dorothy fished her tea bag out of her cup before she took another sip.
“Let’s begin with the profile. One never, never gives a profile this early in the investigation. I mean never. Plus, what he did give was wrong, wrong, wrong. He said the killer was disorganized when he clearly isn’t. He said the suspect had low intelligence and was a manual laborer. Is he kidding?”
“Why?”
“Why? That’s it in a nutshell. What in the hell is he thinking? His jumping up and giving an immediate profile is the most bewildering thing. But that’s not all. He tried to take the meeting away from Lottie. He smirked during everything she had to say. Smirked.”
“Believe me, I’m used to dealing with men who make power plays. In this county there are many who thought a female shouldn’t be the undersheriff. Then they decided it wasn’t that big a deal since I was subservient to Sam. But when I was put in charge of the regional crime center all hell broke loose. The general feeling is that a woman should not be bossing men around. Especially all the sheriffs in nine counties.”
“I simply can’t believe the mentality out here
.” Josie blew a large smoke ring.
“And Ferguson may not have been smirking. He has this scar at the corner of his mouth that makes him look like he is.” They both turned and stared at me. I might as well been talking to them in Greek. “Smirking. Not.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Lottie. You would defend the devil if he came at you with a hand ax.” Josie rose and crushed her cigarette. “I’m going for a walk.”
“I don’t think you can. Too much snow. And I wasn’t defending him. I’m just trying to keep my emotions out of this for once. He does have this scar.”
This was a fine howdy-do. I’m usually the one who is whipped around like a kite in free fall and Josie is the one who keeps things in perspective.
She immediately lit another cigarette. “Sorry,” she mumbled, but directed her next words to Dorothy. “That’s not all. You should have seen the reaction of the men at the meeting. They looked at Ferguson like he was Jesus Christ come to save them.”
“I saw a taste of that when we were at the Garden of Eden. Lottie was not the one the men wanted to follow.” Dorothy moved her chair a little to keep the sun out of her eyes. “They wanted Sheriff Winthrop to take the lead. She had to put them in their place.”
I was very, very quiet. I know exactly when to let my sister rant, but was surprised she would do so in the presence of Keith’s aunt.
“Where are you from, Dorothy?” Josie asked suddenly.
“New York.”
“Another complication is having to drive to Hays to get us all together just because it’s a regional KBI location.” She carried her half-eaten cereal to the sink and dumped it down the garbage disposal.
“There wasn’t another place available that would give us some privacy,” I pointed out. “I couldn’t have us meet in the courthouse. That place has a thousand ears.”
Fractured Families Page 10
