“Hi, I’m Astrid. Welcome to Devlin House. You’re safe here.” She smiled warmly and I felt myself smiling back.
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m Letty Whittaker. I’m here to see Clotilde…” I fumbled, not remembering her last name. “I worked with Regina. At the clinic.”
The smile left her eyes. “Oh, yes. Horrible, isn’t it? I still get the shakes when I think about it. I thought your eulogy was very nice.”
We stood for a moment, awkwardly, before she gathered herself to respond.
“Do you have an appointment? Clotilde has a lot on her plate, what with this emergency and all. I don’t think she has a spare minute today. Why don’t you give me your information and I’ll have her—”
“Um, no,” I interrupted. “I suppose I should have called, but…” I let that trail off, because of course I should have called. However, it probably wouldn’t help to explain that I wanted to meet them face-to-face in order to evaluate each as a potential murderer. That might be a communication barrier, as we say.
Astrid maintained her welcoming expression, although I sensed an exasperated huff building under the smile. I could understand her irritation; among other things, she probably had two jobs—welcome visitors and guard the boss’s time—and I was straining her efforts on both. Despite my reluctance to give out too much information, I was going to have to provide a more detailed explanation or run the risk of being shooed back to my car.
“Regina appointed me executor of her professional duties,” I explained. “That includes the shelter as well as the clinic. I’m really sorry to interrupt Clotilde, but I need to coordinate my efforts here and make arrangements to settle Regina’s case load. Her lawyer can verify this if there are any concerns.”
Astrid’s eyebrows shot up and her whole body stiffened. At the very least, I’d managed to pierce the shell of efficiency. “I see,” she said. “Well. Wait here. Clotilde is in the back.”
She spun on her heel, leaving me standing next to the entry door while she went to alert her boss. I’d lost the advantage of breaking the news myself, but it couldn’t be helped. As I stood in the dark entryway, I heard a door at the back of the house open and click shut. Moments later, it opened again and the sound of brisk footsteps brought the shelter’s director into view. Astrid trotted just behind.
I’d met Clotilde once, briefly, during the time I’d come here with Regina, and I saw a flicker of recognition in her light blue eyes. Or maybe it was from my short eulogy at the funeral. Neither episode had shown me at my best, but I pasted a professional smile on my face and stuck my hand out anyway.
Her grasp was strong, almost painful, but she released my hand the second before I would’ve been sure she was aiming for intimidation. I was surprised to find her dressed very smartly. The soft grey suit wasn’t Bruno Grizzo, but she hadn’t picked up the ensemble at Wally-world either.
“Why don’t we talk in my office?” she said, with a glance at Astrid. A look passed between them, too quick to interpret. I followed Clotilde, hurrying to keep up with her long strides, just as Astrid had. A row of offices ran the length of the hall opposite the group counseling room so it was only a distance of about forty feet, which was good because I hadn’t been keeping up with my aerobics and I was already sweating from nerves.
Her office was as I expected. A small room, crowded with papers and books, various newspaper photos showing Devlin House over the years hanging in cheap frames on the walls. The furniture was hand-me-down expensive—items that had been donated from wealthy benefactors and put to good use. The only object in the room looking relatively new was the computer.
Clotilde motioned to a straight-backed, wooden chair placed in front of the desk. I sat, feeling the chair wobble on uneven legs. A power play. Or just another ancient donation?
“Astrid tells me—” She broke off as the door opened. A third Amazon entered, joining Clotilde behind the desk. She remained standing, reminding me of a bodyguard or a dueler’s second. In contrast to Clotilde’s smart business attire, she wore a baggy pantsuit in a pea green tone that did nothing for her complexion. No makeup, of course. None of them wore any that I could tell, making me feel like a harlot with my eyeliner and lip gloss.
Clotilde went on without introducing us. “Astrid tells me that you are here representing Regina.” Her voice tilted at the end, making a question out of the fact as though she couldn’t quite believe that Astrid had communicated correctly.
“Her professional estate, yes,” I answered, pulling a copy of Regina’s instructions out and laying them on the desk between us. “She named me executor of her professional duties and listed very clearly what that would entail. In addition to settling her client cases at the clinic where we worked together, I’m to do the same here. I’m sure you’re well aware of Regina’s organizational skills.” I smiled to show we were on the same team. They didn’t.
Clotilde nodded noncommittally throughout my little speech. Her bodyguard, however, had no such compunction, frowning at the sheaf of papers as though her eyes could ignite them. Following Clotilde’s lead, I kept my face expressionless, a professional mask. She picked up the instructions and began reading. She didn’t hurry, and I concentrated on sitting still, projecting an air of confidence on loan from somewhere. Maybe I was channeling Regina. When she finished, Clotilde cleared her throat, glancing up once, enigmatically, at her sidekick.
“Everything seems to be in order,” she said. “However, we’ll need to decide how to proceed. There are certain protocols that would need to be followed. The shelter and our clients have very specific needs, and I’m sure that Regina, of all people, would want us to protect them.”
“I understand,” I said, although I didn’t. “I don’t want to disrupt your program any more than necessary, especially after all that’s occurred. Of course, I’ll need access to Regina’s client list and files, and I’ll need to meet with her clients. We’re arranging a grief support group at the clinic; I’m sure we could expand it to include any client here who might find it helpful.”
“It’s just that sort of thing that causes difficulties,” Clotilde said. “We don’t want our residents to be out in public areas any more than necessary. Their situations are often very volatile, and several are in active hiding from abusive partners. We couldn’t expect them to travel across town to another agency to receive services.”
I looked over my shoulder as if my gaze could penetrate the walls of the empty shelter. Obviously, the women didn’t spend all their time in hiding. I knew from my own participation here that most women continued working or otherwise spent the day in the community, only returning at night to the safety of the shelter. One woman in my group, despite all advice, used to go back to her home to keep up with the housework and the laundry.
“That’s fine. I could set up a group here as well. No problem.”
“I’ll need to confer with our board about access to the clients and their files.” She met the bodyguard’s gaze.
“I don’t understand,” I said.
I left the statement hanging in the air. Clotilde and I had an ever-so-polite stare down while I awaited her answer. She didn’t want to, I knew. Maybe she was used to immediate compliance, but we both knew she had no standing here. The document was legal.
Time for another bomb.
CHAPTER SIX
From my large purse, I pulled the files Regina had appropriated—a much nicer word than “stole”— and laid them on the desk. Two pair of glinty eyes tracked my movements like heat-seeking missiles. “I found these at the clinic. Why would Regina have removed these from the shelter?”
A long silence descended. The air almost crackled with tension as the two strained for an appearance of normality. Clotilde cleared her throat.
“Obviously we can’t hazard a guess since we don’t know what you have there.” She drew the stack toward her. The bodyguard leaned in to read over her shoulder.
“Excuse me? I don’t believe we’ve been int
roduced.” I stood, extending my hand across the desk. “My name’s Letty Whittaker. You are…?”
She hesitated, which I found interesting. “Lachlyn Brody.”
“I see. Then you must already be aware of Regina’s intentions regarding her professional will… ” Since you were her executor until two weeks ago, I didn’t say. Wanted to, but didn’t. Having opposition to something I didn’t even want to do was causing a well-spring of petulance to bubble up inside. I would have to watch that. “And I’m sure you’re well aware of the legal standing of the document.”
Nobody’s perfect.
“Thank you for returning the shelter’s property.” Clotilde reentered the fray. “I’m not sure why Regina had these in her possession. Perhaps she was thinking of submitting a paper for review. At any rate, we hadn’t discussed it. For now, however, you can leave your contact information with Astrid. I’ll get back to you as soon as I discuss the situation with our board members.”
Since I was still standing, there wasn’t much I could do, but I wasn’t ready to slink off, either. “When can I expect your call?”
Irritation flashed across her face. It was probably unusual for anyone to demand an answer from the director, and even more rare for her to expose her emotions. It gave me a childish, zingy thrill. She glanced again at Lachlyn for more silent communion. Maybe they were practicing to be telepaths.
“I should get back to you by the end of this week,” Clotilde said.
At the same time, Lachlyn offered, “Maybe by Monday.”
I smiled pleasantly, choosing to respond to Clotilde. “Friday, then.”
No surprise: Friday came and went with no call from Devlin House. It gave me time to reflect on the meeting and, after the thrill of battle passed, I wasn’t entirely pleased with my performance. Not pleased at all, in fact. Despite the momentary rush of surviving a grown-up version of mean-girl wars, I couldn’t see any advantage in alienating two persons who could make my executor job difficult, thus extending the time and energy I’d have to invest in order to complete it.
They say that an alcoholic’s maturity level gets stalled at the time of life that she started drinking. Which means, despite a graduate degree and a respected profession in the mental health field, I’ve been a teenager passing as an adult for several years. I’m working on it.
Since I was already immersed in immaturity, my inclination was to blame my response on the Amazons. That felt comfy. Clotilde and Lachlyn had certainly put out strong bitchvibes, but my instinctive bitch-back wasn’t going to help the situation, no matter how gratifying.
Plus, with Regina’s death and the strange circumstances around it, I was just too emotional to fully trust my gut. Was there some strange purpose behind the power-play going on at Devlin House, or was it simply a battle of wills with two domineering women? Hard to tell.
The delay gave me time to make arrangements at the clinic for the grief group. I also thought to include any of our coworkers who might benefit from attending, but no one took me up on it. Not surprising and nothing to do with how anyone felt about Regina, I imagined. We therapists are just more comfortable being the helpers than the helped.
The clinic reopened on Thursday morning, so many of my coworkers claimed to be too busy for the group that evening. My friend Hannah agreed to cocounsel, though, and that was nice. Hannah is a health-conscious, earth-mother type who was thoughtful enough to bring snacks and tea, which hadn’t occurred to me. If it had, I would probably have brought something laden with chocolate. Instead, Hannah chose to bring in her “special” muffins made, she informed us, with natural molasses and acorns she’d picked up from the ground herself. They required a lot of chewing and were gluten-free.
Clotilde didn’t call until Tuesday. At 6:00 a.m. A time she could be certain she wouldn’t find me in the office. Her message said that the board had given temporary approval (whatever that was) for me to review Regina’s current client list only. I interpreted this to mean I was sort of okayed to do not much. I wouldn’t have access to Regina’s closed files unless the full board met, reviewed the will, and gave official approval. They were seeking advice from their lawyer, too. Lastly, they required a shelter employee be present to “supervise” my involvement. Apparently, they were insisting on a reviewer for my reviewing. The whole thing reminded me of the Bee-Watcher Watcher in a Dr. Seuss book my mother used to read me. But it didn’t make me feel lucky.
Lachlyn was my assigned bee-watcher watcher.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I made sure to get to the shelter later that very evening. No sense in dragging it out, but irritated at the delay over the weekend and the ridiculous restrictions, my inner bitch tugged on the leash a little. She decided we needed to make a point. Sometimes I have very little control over her. It was worse when we drank.
Astrid once again opened the door. This time the group room door was shut, the soft sibilant sound of women’s voices dipping and rising just beyond. Astrid put a finger to her lips, shushing me, then motioned me to follow. I couldn’t tell if she was protecting the residents’ confidentiality or merely trying to keep my presence a secret. We retreated to Clotilde’s office. Astrid, still silent, circled around the desk and took a seat. Her expression was a careful blank, no vestige of the welcome that she’d previously extended.
“Clotilde told me to give you the list of Regina’s clients. Her current ones, that is. A few of them are still in residence, but the others were seen as outpatients. Their contact information will be in their individual files, but be sure you read the notes sections to make sure that it’s safe to contact them at home. We don’t want you to put anyone at any more risk than is necessary.”
“Of course not. I don’t want to put anyone at risk.”
“Well, that won’t change the fact that you probably will. I don’t know what Regina was thinking …” The last was muttered quietly as she twisted to reach the file cabinet behind her. Not so quiet as to not be heard, however.
Pulling the top drawer open, she reached in, grabbing a sheaf of papers. “I can’t just give you a key. You’ll have to arrange a time with Lachlyn since she’s in charge of you.”
It took an effort to not respond to the “in charge of you” statement, but I managed. Taking a deep breath, I asked how I could get a message to Lachlyn. I imagined another few days of the runaround. Instead, Astrid pointed to the wall. “Her office is right next door.” Her expression indicated great doubt that I could manage the five or so feet without visual aids. “She’s probably still here. She rarely leaves before 7:00.”
“Such dedication.” I turned before she could verify whether I was being sarcastic. My vow to resist pettiness was being broken at every step, but I tried to regroup before knocking.
A crisp “One moment” greeted me through the cheap, hollow-core door. A scowl greeted me after it opened. I couldn’t see much past Lachlyn’s tall, spare frame, but what I could reminded me of a monk’s cell. The furniture had been stripped down to a cheap metal desk and a decade old swivel office chair. No paintings that I could see. No knickknacks. Papers arranged with OCD precision on the desk’s surface. Lachlyn shifted to block my view.
“Good evening,” I chirped. I was not surprised to discover that Lachlyn was prone to sneering. Here’s where my pettiness came in handy because instead of acting as a deterrent, Lachlyn’s sourness cheered me immensely. Since I couldn’t seem to vanquish my inner bitch, I’d have to make her work for me.
Easy enough.
I followed Lachlyn to Regina’s old office, where she unlocked the door as reluctantly as if she were letting me in to ransack her family’s burial vault. Like Clotilde’s, it was another mishmash of furniture odds and ends. Oddly enough, Regina hadn’t added her personal touch here. She did have a couple of generic landscape-type pictures, but nothing that reflected the sense of style and warmth that she had displayed at our clinic.
Lachlyn stood next to the file cabinet and stretched her hand palm up toward me.
For a brief, crazy moment I thought she was asking me to dance. “What?” I asked, mentally backing away.
“The client list?” She didn’t bother with sarcasm, but kept her voice flat and dry as though my stupidity exhausted her. Nice touch.
I handed it over, glancing around the office again as I did. It was so very unlike Regina, so plain and stripped down. Inhospitable. Lachlyn unlocked the cabinet and immediately pulled out a small stack of files rubber-banded together. She hadn’t even needed to sort through the long row of manila files lining the drawer.
“You’ve already gone through these, haven’t you?” They had gone through the office too, I realized. That’s why it felt so wrong. Regina’s articles had been removed, her files combed through. Whatever I’d be reviewing was likely to have been sanitized. But of what? At any rate, I still had the copies of Regina’s pilfered files, and I would find anything worth finding in those. I hoped.
“Of course we did. We weren’t aware of any changes in Regina’s plans, and we needed to protect our women.”
“When will I be able to review the closed files?”
“Who knows if you even will? That hasn’t been decided yet. The full board still needs to meet on that issue. They can’t be expected to completely rearrange their lives and their schedules to suit you.”
Having spoken her piece, she stalked out the door. I heard her footsteps recede toward the kitchen and sighed in relief.
Short-lived.
Before I could even circle the desk to take a seat, she was back in the tiny room, hauling a metal folding chair. She stuck it in the corner, then sailed out the door again. Moments later, back in she came with a notepad and pen. She sat in the chair looking like she might be ready to take dictation.
Whittaker 02 The One We Love Page 3
