The similarities from case to case were striking. The women were kept isolated from family or friends and usually had young children, which added to the hostage mentality. Where could they go? Where could they run? Only to other women, it seemed. Women dedicated to their safety, determined to help, ready to give all of their time, maybe even their very lives, in order to save their sisters. To women ready to sacrifice their own sanity as well?
I was certain a cigarette would help me make sense of this.
That might be my addiction talking.
I sighed, shoving the files into my tote bag. I’d compiled a list of names and numbers for the women in the files, but I was still uncertain about contacting them. Only one, Monica Skolnik, could be considered a recent client having left the shelter this last August. Regina had died—or been killed—just over two months later, but if there was a connection, I couldn’t see it. The others were all more than a year old, one going clear back to March 2007.
Still, for whatever reason, Regina had been concerned enough about these women to have stolen the files and secreted them in her clinic office. I wasn’t ready to give up yet.
Since I was in the library, I decided a little research was in order. I moved to the computers. A quick search popped up thousands of hits for Devlin House. Not surprising since the shelter depended on donations and grant money. It also explained why they couldn’t maintain complete secrecy for the operation and Astrid’s subsequent emphasis on security.
A shelter newsletter popped up about seven hits down, so I clicked it open. It was a typical newsletter, half information, half appeal for money. There was also a national study that examined the compliance with aftercare services in women who left the shelters before treatment had been completed versus those who left after meeting treatment goals. Not surprisingly, those who went AWOL hoping their partner had “changed” refused follow-up counseling and, more often than not, returned to the shelter bruised and battered. How awful. I shook my head sadly.
The newsletter also had a listing of the board members, along with cameo pictures of each. One woman looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place her. Her name, Beth Collier, didn’t help either. Shoulder-length auburn hair, emerald green eyes, a nice smile that reached her eyes. The association tickled the edges of my memory but refused to come to the fore. I printed the newsletter, hoping it would come to me later.
For the next hour, I clicked my way down the search hits without finding anything that seemed unusual. Another thought struck me: the shelter predated the age of Google by at least a decade and a half. It was time for some old-fashioned research.
A nice librarian led me to the newspaper archives and, once she was certain I could manage the microfiche machine, left me on my own. From the newsletter I’d just downloaded I knew the year the shelter opened, although not the month. I’d reached September before I found the article I’d felt certain would be there. By that time I had a raging headache from the strobe light effect of the flipping screen. It was worth it, though, if only for the photo.
The article’s headline ran “A Safe Haven For Women.” The paper had granted two columns for the story, a surprisingly generous allotment. Next to it, a grainy black and white photo captured the moment. Streamers and banners decorated the front of the structure, lush flowers bordered the walkway, the paint looked fresh. Quite a difference from the run-down facility that housed the women now. I doubted it had been painted since.
Clotilde and Astrid each stood with wide smiles on either side of an obviously handmade poster board welcoming the women of Chippewa Falls to Devlin House. Behind the poster, beaming like sunshine on a summer lake, stood Lachlyn in full nun regalia. I gaped at the screen trying to reconcile my mind to Lachlyn as a nun, much less a smiling Lachlyn in a nun’s habit. But there she was. There they all were. Three women—young, idealistic, strong—each basking in the joy of achieving their life’s dream. Or no, I thought. Not achieving it. Beginning it. They looked like adventuresses, fearless, ready to stride off to battle, as indeed they were.
Strangely, perhaps because of the black, cloak-like habit, it was Lachlyn that drew one’s eyes. Lachlyn, who despite the bright smile, gave the ensemble an aura of austerity, asceticism, harsh determination. She loomed tall and stately as she stood with Clotilde and Astrid on either side of her like stewards to a warrior queen. An optical illusion, really, because the three were so nearly the same height and build that they could have been sisters.
I blinked and the image cleared.
I needed a meeting.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
_
Thursday isn’t my usual night for a meeting, but I was too stressed to stay at home. After feeding Siggy, I took off for the HP & Me club downtown. I’d only been sober ten months, but the dilapidated old building already felt like home. Various greetings ranging from warm welcomes to raunchy catcalls greeted me as I pushed through the door and looked around for my friends. Sue, my sponsor, and a few other women from my Wednesday night group stood next to the coffee counter. As I approached I remembered the photo in the shelter newsletter that had seemed so familiar. In addition to being a mainstay at the club, Sue was a retired teacher and knew an amazing amount of people and their families. It didn’t hurt that she’d lived in Chippewa Falls all her life and was related to half the county. When I showed her the newsprint, she recognized the auburn-haired woman right away.
“That’s Beth C.”
The initialed last name told me that Beth was a fellow AA member. “Why don’t I know her?”
“She goes to the Sunday morning group. She’s been sober for maybe five years? Six? She only comes once a week, but she’s still very regular. She’s good people.”
That was a solid endorsement from Sue. She didn’t like most people. Sometimes I wasn’t even sure if she liked me.
“Why are you asking about her?” she asked.
“She’s on the board at the shelter where Regina used to work. They’re having a board meeting on Saturday, and I’d really like to talk to her before then. If you think she would be, um, sympathetic.”
“Like I said, she’s good people. But it would depend on exactly what you’re asking her to do. I’ll give her a call and pave the way for you. You’re on your own after that.”
“Good enough,” I said.
“It better be. Now, unless you want to talk about your Third Step, you better hustle your bony butt into the meeting.”
I hustled.
Grabbing a chair between Stacie, a young friend who’d gotten sober the same day as me, and Trinnie, a newbie, I plunked myself down at the banquet table. Trinnie looked liked she’d lost weight; something she could ill afford. She had a murky cigarette smell that, despite the staleness, was captivating to me. Addictions are a bitch.
Unaware of my vicarious inhalations, Trinnie leaned forward. “Letty, I need to ask you something.”
“What’s up?”
“Would you be my sponsor?”
“Me? I can’t. I haven’t gotten through the steps yet myself.” An understatement.
“Just temporary then. Until I find someone I can work with,” she said.
“How come you don’t have one yet?”
“I haven’t been able to decide who I like best. But I really need to get started. I had kind of a rough weekend.”
“Did you drink?” I asked. Sounded like a sponsor already.
“No, but it was close. I need to get phone numbers, too.”
“I guess I could be a temporary sponsor, but you really need to find someone with more time. Soon. And you need to talk about your weekend when it’s your turn tonight.”
Stacie and I passed her our phone numbers, then hushed. The meeting was starting.
I didn’t know if I’d done the right thing, but I guessed as a sponsor I was better than nothing. Not by much, but still. Especially not with the way I’d been avoiding working on my own program.
I liked Trinnie. She reminded me a lot of my youn
ger sister, Kris.
I mentally shook myself and turned to focus on the speaker. Daydreaming through a meeting wouldn’t exactly be setting a good example.
Later that night, I laid on my couch waiting for the local news. Siggy was curled in a warm, vibrating mass on my chest. I blew softly on his ear, making it twitch. He stretched, then re-positioned, tucking his face under my chin. Although he looked like a rich dessert, cream-colored with cocoa-tipped points on three paws and the tip of his tail, it was the chocolate smudge under his nose and chin that made me name him in honor of psychology’s father, Sigmund Freud. His purrs rose and fell with his breathing, a sound I call “sleep buzzing.”
The phone rang, startling me and upsetting us both. Sig hopped down, tossing a reproachful look over his shoulder and stalking into the kitchen for a nighttime snack.
“Hello?” My voice sounded wary even to my own ears. The only persons I knew who would call this late were family. Hence, the wariness.
Detective Blodgett’s gravelly smoker’s rasp boomed through the tiny phone speaker as though he’d never accepted the phone’s ability to project his voice. I snatched the phone away from my ear, frantically jabbing the volume button. Even with the phone six inches from my ear, I could still hear him.
“Don’t you ever call back?” he asked. “I was just getting ready to put out a BOLO on you.”
“Nobody needs to ‘be on the lookout’ for me, but thanks for worrying. Besides, I called you.”
“I wasn’t worried, and I texted you back.”
“You texted me?”
“My grandkid taught me. I’m hip.”
I thought about Blodgett’s stretchy, hound dog face and baggy, mismatched suits, and squelched a giggle.
“What kinda trouble are you getting yourself into now?”
Not worried. Right. Despite suspecting me in my boyfriend’s murder, Blodgett was one of my mainstays following my attack. After he’d decided I hadn’t killed anyone. But he’d stayed involved in my life and I had the feeling that wasn’t a typical reaction for him. I’d grown close with his wife, Diana, a sweet forbearing woman who was awaiting Blodgett’s retirement with eager plans. She’d put her years in raising children—their own four as well as an assortment of foster kids—and she was ready for some serious cross-country visiting. An elaborate motor home stood parked in the side yard ready to go, a travel itinerary all laid out. Diana claimed the only thing she had left to pack was her recipe box. She planned to cook each person’s favorite treat as soon as Blodgett slammed the gear shift to D. Secretly, I pretended to be one of her adopted daughters.
“It’s going to sound stupid,” I said to Blodgett.
His sigh rattled in my ear. “I’m a detective. I’m used to stupid. Lay it on me.”
So I did. He already knew about Regina’s death. In fact, he’d been to the wake. I assumed he knew the manner of her death, but I went over it anyway, mentioning the strange fall, the knitting needle. Then I filled him in on Regina’s recent appointment of me as her professional executor. He grunted at that, but didn’t interrupt, which I took as cop-speak for “I’m listening; please go on.” Either that or he was sitting on the john.
“And then,” I continued, “I found this stack of client files that Regina took from the shelter. She wasn’t supposed to do that.”
“Maybe she was just going to work at home.”
“They weren’t all her clients. In fact, they weren’t even recent cases. Plus, taking the files from the site is a breach of confidentiality. In many agencies, that would be a firing offense. You just don’t do it. Regina would have been well aware of that. She didn’t have permission either, because Clotilde, the director, was pretty steamed when I gave them back.”
There was a pause, then, “You gave them back?”
“Of course I did,” I said, virtuousness dripping from my lips.
Another pause. “I’ll want to see the copies. What else?”
I didn’t bother asking how he knew I’d made copies. He was a detective, after all.
“There was a woman at the shelter the night Regina died. She took off the next morning, which isn’t really surprising, I suppose, if she’s afraid of getting involved. But I was supposed to have access to all of Regina’s clients and they kept her off the client roster. I found out about her inadvertently.”
“So, you’ve got an accidental death and a bunch of misfiled files?”
“Well, no.”
He waited.
“I’ve got a creepy feeling too.”
“Uh-huh. An accidental death, misfiled files, and you’re creepy.”
“A creepy feeling. Look, if you don’t want—”
“Get me copies of the copies. I’ll look into it.” He hung up.
Why did I love rude people so much?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I’d hoped Blodgett would share info from the autopsy or give me a hint as to what the cops were thinking. Wrong. Information only traveled one way with Blodgett. I snuggled down under my comforter getting ready to do my own sleep buzzing when a new thought crept into the fuzzy edges of my mind.
Blodgett sent me a text?
I tried to ignore it. Siggy had settled into the hollow at the back of my knees, providing kitty-heating-pad warmth. I didn’t want to bug him again. Feline attitude can be scary.
But a text message from Blodgett would have definitely caught my attention. If it had gotten through, I should be hearing the beepy alert telling me I’d missed a call.
I pulled the covers up to my chin, burrowing deeper into the cozy softness. Obviously Blodgett’s grandson hadn’t done a good job of instructing him. Not surprising. Blodgett, despite his self-delusions, was not on the cutting edge of communication technology. He kept up with just enough to understand how things might impact his job, but I’d never seen any evidence that he used any of the myriad of technologies available in his daily life.
Besides, I would have heard the damn alert.
I gave up, trudged into the kitchen where my phone was charging, and stared blurrily at the home screen. Even in my groggy state I could see that there were no little icons for missed texts or messages. I clicked over to the MISSED CALLS screen and there it was.
DET BLODGETT
He’d called at 10:04 this morning. I clicked over to the messages screen and found—nothing. Which didn’t make sense. Blodgett’s text had obviously come through. I checked the volume in case I’d forgotten to adjust it after my last therapy session. Except I hadn’t had therapy with anyone today, and I knew the phone worked because I’d gotten several calls on it.
Maybe Blodgett had called but hadn’t properly sent the message? Was that even possible?
And yet …
Where had my phone been when Blodgett had called?
Or better question: where had I been? If it rang while I was with Clotilde, I wouldn’t have heard it. I would, however, have since heard the beep indicating I had voice mail or missed a call. I hadn’t heard that.
My usual habit was to leave my cell on the desk next to me while I worked. If it’s out on my desk I was more likely to remember to turn it to vibrate before meetings. There is nothing as embarrassing as a cell phone ringing in the middle of a therapy session. But if I had followed my usual habit—and I thought I had—it would have been sitting on the desk … including the time I met with Clotilde. On the desk in the therapy office where Lachlyn waited for me all by her lonesome, growing more and more irritated.
Where, in fact, Lachlyn could have seen that my buddy, Det. Blodgett, was returning my phone calls. She must have wondered why I had a police detective in my phone directory. Had she deleted the message?
So much for sleep.
Friday was a struggle. I managed, barely, to stay focused on the back-to-back clients I had scheduled that morning. On the positive side, being so busy kept my mind from anxiously swirling out of control. Not only had the doubts raised last night kept me awake, but Siggy had picked up on my tension a
nd refused to sleep with me. I’d have to learn better stress management techniques or I’d lose my snuggle buddy.
Eventually the time for my appointment with Emma rolled around. On the way over to Regina’s house, I stopped at Blodgett’s house and left copies of the files. Neither he nor Diana were home, but he left the screened-in porch unlocked and he’d told me to leave them on top of the freezer chest.
I’d never been to Regina’s and didn’t know what to expect. I had always pictured her living in a sleek, ultra-modern condo with stainless steel fixtures and having somebody else to do the maintenance.
Instead, I discovered that she lived in a restored Craftsman style bungalow in a quiet, well-tended neighborhood. Emma waited on the covered porch, a soft, pumpkin-colored sweater draped over one arm in concession to the early autumn air.
As I climbed the steps, she smiled. “Thank you for coming over. I don’t know how I would have felt doing this by myself.”
I wasn’t altogether sure what she meant by “this” but assumed it had to do with entering Regina’s home by herself. I answered with a simple “no problem,” and we fell silent.
Emma unlocked the front door and entered first. The house was filled with a silence so foreboding, it had texture. Yet somewhere close by, a clock ticked. The furnace hummed to life. We stood in the entryway as though expecting someone—Regina?—to call out a welcome. The door clicked shut behind us.
“Are you looking for anything in particular?” Emma asked.
“Her scheduling calendar. An appointment book or something on her computer. I couldn’t find anything at the clinic or the shelter, either. It’s probably stupid, but it just seems strange that I haven’t found it. I want to see if she has any work files, too.” I didn’t mention that it would have been unethical if she had brought the files home, but it had occurred to me that I might find more misappropriated files here. Who knows? Perhaps the normally principled Regina had made a habit of carrying files around. People are strange.
Whittaker 02 The One We Love Page 6
