“You didn’t back away from it either,” he interrupted.
The words hung in the air between us for several moments.
“I was supposed to back away from it?” I finally managed. “How do you do that, Marshall? Some crazed asshole is coming after me and I’m supposed to just sit there and offer him milk and cookies?”
“No. But you don’t have to rush toward it, either. You could have let the police do their job. Instead, you kept things from them. You ran around like Nancy Drew on steroids, and that pulled the people around you into danger, too. Including me.”
It was the “pulling the people around you into danger” that pushed me over the edge, of course.
“Hey, Marshall? You know what? I don’t think Regina’s death was an accident. I think she was stabbed with a knitting needle and tossed down the stairs like a sack of garbage. Murdered, in other words. And I’m using my role as her executor to check out the staff at the shelter and, guess what? I think they’re acting mighty suspicious. Oh, and just so you know, I did talk to Blodgett about it, but somebody knifed him—”
“Detective Blodgett was attacked?” His face paled.
“—from behind and he’s been in the hospital ever since. And I didn’t”—my voice hitched—“I didn’t tell Diana, but I should have.” I took a deep shuddery breath.
“Letty, please, I’m not saying—”
“Bottom line? I don’t believe murder is somebody else’s business. I think it’s everyone’s business and I plan to continue looking for answers, at least until I can find enough evidence for the police to step in.
“Oh, and by the way? I think Regina knew about Bob schtupping the wife of one of his clients. So, he’s a suspect, too. That last part happened on your watch, and I came out to ask if you remembered anything more about it. That’s the only reason I came out here.”
He sat staring at me like I was a lunatic. Resisting the urge to stick out my tongue, I settled for slamming the car door hard enough to set the vehicle rocking.
CHAPTER THIRTY NINE
I spent the weekend swinging on a carb-salt-sugar pendulum comprised of Haagen Dazs Chocolate Chocolate Chip ice cream and bags of Lays potato chips. Cliche, maybe, but my options for mood-altering chemicals were limited, so I took what I could get. Concern over Blodgett’s health warred with the seemingly less important distress at Marshall’s duplicity. In reality, the two events combined for equal opportunity despair. That made me feel even more guilty. My head knew that Marshall—a man who had dropped out of my life months before—was far less important than my friend getting attacked and suffering a heart attack. I called the hospital Friday night to see how Blodgett had fared his surgery. Once again, the nurse wouldn’t answer any questions other than to say he was stable. I had to settle for that, unless I wanted to call Diana.
Which I didn’t.
By Saturday night, I was sick of myself, so I dragged my butt to the Saturday Open Speaker meeting. Open Speaker meetings, unlike closed, consist of one speaker telling an audience his or her story—how it was, what happened, and how it is now. Before, during, and after, so to speak. Perfect, because I wouldn’t have to actively participate. I just needed to be with people.
Thankfully, Sue didn’t show up, even though she liked Open Speaker meetings. I hadn’t called her to set up our meeting like I’d promised, so I was a little leery of running into her. As soon as the speaker finished, I slipped out to my car. I had enough to worry about.
At least the meeting had jarred me out of my pity pot, as we call it in AA Definitely not one of my favorite sayings since it had the nasty habit of being true. I hated that.
But it also got me thinking.
I still hadn’t figured out who RTA was. If I could get access to the shelter’s files via the efficacy study, I might be able to search for other RTA notations, but I hadn’t heard from Beth. Hadn’t heard from anyone from the shelter for that matter. My impatient side wanted to call Beth, but I knew it would be better to wait and let it play out. Bugging her wouldn’t help.
So much for thinking.
The next few days were remarkable only in their utter lack of progress. One morning, early, the phone shrilled. Clotilde must have taken great pleasure in knowing she woke me up. 6:00 a.m. Who does that?
She didn’t even bother with a phony “Oh! Did I wake you?” I tried to pretend that I was alert and ready to face the day, but my voice couldn’t maintain the ruse. All I could manage was that one-octave-higher-but-still-sleep-graveled tone that never fooled anyone. It certainly had no chance with Clotilde.
She also eschewed niceties like ‘hello’ or introducing herself. All I got was “The board has agreed to your proposal. I’ll meet with you this evening at seven.”
“This evening? Um … let’s see … Today’s Tuesday, right?”
“If that doesn’t work, I’m available on the 30th.”
“The 30th? Of this month? That’s, what? Three weeks from now?”
Long pause.
“Tonight would be fine,” I said.
Click.
That left thirteen hours to wonder what exactly I was going to say since I had no clue how to set up an efficacy study. It had sounded good when it was in my head, but like all theories, when it came down to actual implementation, it felt like I was trying to nail Jell-O to the wall.
In the end, I put together a short, five-item questionnaire and called it good. It’s not like they could fire me. Kill me, maybe, but not fire me.
CHAPTER FORTY
It was one of those harried, frantic days at the clinic.
Edna, my 2:00 client—a dear, sweet woman caught in a remorseless cycle of resentment, depression, and guilt after her meth-addicted daughter dropped five grandkids off for an “overnight” that had now lasted eighteen months—had whispered, “I think I’m going to kill myself” four minutes before her session ended. For the rest of the afternoon, I parked her in the staff break room, where she placidly crocheted an afghan and sipped warm Diet Sprite. In the few minutes between client sessions, I worked at arranging admission to the fourth floor at Sacred Heart for her and respite care for the kiddos. I didn’t like leaving her alone for long stretches while I saw my other clients, but Lisa checked in on her regularly. I stopped worrying after I found her cheerfully cleaning out the staff refrigerator. Apparently, disclosure and the reassurance that her charges were being cared for had relieved her immensely. In fact, she appeared to be reframing her stay on the psych floor as a “vacation” as evidenced by her asking whether the hospital had a hot tub.
With five kids under twelve at home, who could blame her?
Of course, Bob needed an update, right as I was going out the door. He’d been conspicuously absent during Edna’s crisis, his office door shut firmly against intrusions.
I plopped down in the chair, trying desperately to avoid mental images of Bob doin’ the nasty with Bettina. My nerves had stood all they could take. If there was a God, he would spare me this.
Bob asked to review my documentation and the suicide plan. Bored, I sat back and let my mind wander. Eventually, I was going to have to deal with the Bob-n-Bettina issue and when I did, there would be hell to pay.
Most of it directed at me. Even though I’d be doing the right thing, turning your boss over to the licensing board for unethical behavior would not be a career enhancer.
I wondered if the shelter was hiring?
I almost felt sorry for Bob, too. All he’d ever wanted was to be middle-management, tucked away in an office with a surplus of prestige and a deficit of responsibility. So different from Marshall.
My eyes fell on Bob’s custom-made nameplate. He’d brought it in the second week—an office-warming present from his wife. Green-veined marble with a brass plate: Robert Thomas Aaronson.
I sat up. RTA?
I must have looked like I’d seen a ghost, but for once, Bob’s dull-wittedness came in handy. I swallowed the multitude of questions that surged up.
Now was not the time. I needed to think carefully about what I wanted to say and ask, because there would be no do-overs.
And it could, I supposed, be a coincidence.
I was more than twenty minutes late for my meeting with Clotilde. Surprisingly, she was still at the shelter. Although my apology was sincere, I didn’t waste a whole lot of time on it. I was still reeling from my discovery and I’d never convince her that my tardiness wasn’t a power play. I did wonder, though, if I could work in a question about Bob’s involvement here.
Taking the seat next to her desk, I simply handed her the questionnaire and waited to hear her objections. I was sure there would be several. Her anger was palpable, filling the air around us and wielded in that chill, dark manner used by people who covet control. As she ran a jaundiced eye over the form, I watched her expression. Unlike Lachlyn, who was free with her contempt, Clotilde worked at hiding her emotions—she was the professional face of the shelter after all—but she had a “tell.” I’d seen it when I’d confronted her about withholding Karissa’s file from me.
There. Her upper lip flickered in a half-stifled sneer. Despite the brief welling of juvenile glee at catching her out, I kept my own expression blandly pleasant.
Briskly placing the sheet of paper on the desk in front of her, she folded her hands across the top and met my eye. “How do you propose to go about this … this study?”
“I thought it would be best to keep it simple. To begin with, I’ll give the questionnaire to the current residents, and then we’ll need to have them fill it out again when they leave. In the future, though, we’ll administer it at admission, two weeks after, and at discharge, provided we know when the woman is leaving, of course.”
“Not all residents stay two weeks.”
“I realize that, but I don’t think it’s fair to evaluate treatment results if a woman only stays a few nights.” I smiled to show her I was trying to be helpful. She didn’t smile back. “We’d have to have some way of addressing that sub-group though. Maybe we should still give them the discharge questionnaire?”
Clotilde shrugged.
“Also, in order to get a baseline,” I continued, “I’ll be conducting a file review of the last few years to see if we can get an approximate idea of post-treatment results. I won’t include that data in the final summary for the board, but it could be helpful when it comes time to apply for further grants. And it will give us an idea of what’s working and what isn’t.”
So much for a poker face. At the mention of a file review, her lips thinned to a slash, the knuckles on her folded hands, formerly poised so genteelly over my little questionnaire, blanched white. I realized I was watching a literal struggle for control, and I found myself mentally calculating an escape route.
The space between us grew hot and prickly, tangibly tense. Neither of us spoke for several seconds—a lifetime—but despite the silence, the air seemed crowded with noise: a ticking clock, my heart thudding, Clotilde’s rasping, measured breaths.
“Fine,” she said.
Fine?
She didn’t bother explaining herself, just stood, indicating the meeting was over. Instinctively, I rose. “The board expects a progress report in one month. Astrid will inform you of the date.” Without taking her eyes off me, she walked to the door, holding it open, maneuvering my exit.
Maybe I’d ask someone else about Bob.
She left the shelter moments later. Although I hadn’t needed the bathroom in the literal sense, I locked myself into the porcelain sanctuary as soon as I cleared her office threshold.
CHAPTER FORTY ONE
When I finally ventured out of the commode, I found Astrid in the kitchen, making coffee. She gave a start as I emerged, then looked at the door through which Clotilde had just slammed out and said, “Oh!”
“Oh” can mean a lot of things. In this case, it meant, “Now I understand why Clotilde was so pissed.”
“I guess you heard why I was meeting with Clotilde,” I said.
She looked uncomfortable. “Oh my, yes. We heard all about it this morning. Clotilde spent all morning talking to the board.”
Left unsaid was that Clotilde had put in an awful lot of time trying to get the board to rescind their permission.
“Do you think it’s such a terrible thing to do an efficacy study?” I asked. “Doesn’t she want to know if the program is effective?”
Astrid tossed me a disgusted, are-you-kidding-me? look. “We already know that the program is effective. What could be more effective then removing a woman from her abuser and giving her shelter? There’s nothing a little questionnaire can tell us that we don’t already know. Besides, Clotilde has to look at the big picture. There are more things that have to be considered than just this study.”
The problem with—or the benefit of—an extended lie is the liar tends to start believing it. I was working up a pretty good head of self-righteous steam, forgetting that I was, well, lying like a dirty penny in a parking lot, and close to alienating the one person who had been helpful so far. I took a deep breath.
“I know the shelter works. I’ve seen it for myself.” We both knew I was referring to the aftermath of my own attack. She relaxed a bit, so I went on. “Look, you know grants aren’t being awarded easily. This study can help with that. More grant money means more for the women. How can that be a bad thing?”
“More money is never a bad thing.” She smiled wryly at the admission.
A thought occurred to me. “What other considerations?” I asked.
The smile slid off her face. “Oh. Um.”
“You said there were ‘more things to be considered.’ What did you mean by that?”
“I probably shouldn’t have said that. I mean, after all, it’s all been settled. When you implied that we didn’t care, I got a little … Look, just forget it.”
“What’s been settled?” I said.
She scowled. “The complaint made against you to the licensing board. Last spring? Clotilde felt it was her duty to inform the board about the allegations made against you. After all, if they are going to let you—”
“Allegations? Are you kidding me? You know very well who made that complaint and why. They were completely unfounded. I can’t believe …” I sputtered to a halt as a new realization hit me.
“Astrid, that information came out of the group sessions I attended here. Clotilde had no right to violate my confidentiality like that. Not even to the board.”
Astrid’s face paled. By revealing Clotilde’s anti-Letty campaign tactics, she’d let her boss in for more trouble than she’d realized. If I chose to pursue the matter, Clotilde would be looking at her own ethics investigation. Let’s see how she liked it.
“What time does she get in tomorrow?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I guess the usual time. Letty, please—”
I held a hand up. “I’m not trying to get you in trouble, Astrid. I won’t even mention where I heard it, but she’s crossed the line. She had no right to bring up information learned in a therapy group, and worse, to use it when she knew it was unjustified! There’s no excuse for that.
“Is Lachlyn here?” I suddenly changed the subject.
Apparently, the abrupt switch unsettled her even more. Her face blotched in irregular red and white patches eerily similar to Candi Cow, the 4-H Guernsey heifer I raised in eighth grade.
Probably best not to mention that particular resemblance.
“Lachlyn is visiting her daughter. Joyce is here, though,” Astrid said.
“Her daughter? I thought her daughter was dead?”
“Dead? Why would you think that?” Astrid asked.
I had one of those “Who’s on first?” moments. “You said she was. When you were telling why Lachlyn is so craz—” I coughed and started over. “When you were telling me why Lachlyn was so dedicated to women’s issues. You said her daughter’s life had been ruined by some guy.”
“Well, yes, she had to drop out of college. S
he still lives up in Turtle Lake with that jerk. They work at the casino. Lachlyn went up for little Lacey’s birthday. Her granddaughter. She’s five.”
Lachlyn: holy sister, mother, grandmother? My brain reeled.
“Anyway, she’s running the craft class in the group room,” Astrid said. Her eyes flicked across my face.
“Lachlyn?”
“Joyce. You said you wanted to talk to her. Goodness, Letty, you’re barely making sense today.”
Completely befuddled, I said good-bye and made my way up to the group room. It would give me a chance to get to know Joyce a little more anyway. I could hear the women murmuring inside, the sound a cheerful counterpoint to my emotions. Tapping on the door, I leaned my head around the corner.
“What’s going on in here?” I asked, using a faux-perky, kindergarten teacher voice.
The room hushed in one of those what-is-she-doing-here? moments. Utilizing my alcoholic’s handy ability to deny uncomfortable truths, I forged on.
CHAPTER FORTY TWO
They were knitting. I’d met most of the women, although it looked like one of them—Candice, or maybe Barb—wasn’t there. A new girl sat next to Joyce, a skein of navy blue yarn tangled around her fingers.
The rest of the women’s projects seemed to have progressed in varying stages and equally varied expertise. Judging by the size and pastel colors, scarves and baby blankets seemed to be the preferred choices. Joyce was the exception, an intricate cabled sweater pooling on her lap. Blood red yarn spilled from the needles like she’d hit an artery.
I shuddered as the image of Regina’s strange manner of death intruded my thoughts.
“Did you want something?” Joyce asked.
“I just …”
She waited, staring dully at me.
“Um, Astrid mentioned there was a craft class going on so I thought I would peek in and say hi to everyone.” I took a seat next to Jan, who was wearing the same pjs she’d had on during the self-defense class.
Whittaker 02 The One We Love Page 16
