Ladies' Night

by Andrews, Mary Kay

  And yes, she was definitely curious about Paula after witnessing her encounter with the mystery Lexus driver. She got dressed and slipped Sweetie into her now-familiar tote bag, giving her a doggie treat to chew on and keep quiet.

  * * *

  A hastily scrawled note on the back of an envelope was taped to Dr. Paula Talbott-Sinclair’s office door.

  DUE TO FAMILY EMERGENCY NO GROUP SESSION TONIGHT—PTS

  “What’s going on?” Ashleigh Hartounian stuck her head out the window of her red BMW and called to Camryn Nobles, who was standing in front of the office door, fuming.

  “No session tonight,” Camryn said.

  “Whaaat?” Ashleigh scrambled out of her car and joined Camryn on the sidewalk in front of the office. She peered into the office window, but there was nothing to see.

  “What are we looking at?” Grace asked, as she walked up to the two women.

  “See for yourself.” Camryn gestured toward the note taped to the door.

  “Huhh,” Grace said, frowning. “And there’s no sign of life inside the office?”

  “None that we could see,” Ashleigh said. “So what do we do now?”

  “We don’t spend three hundred dollars on Paula’s bullshit, at least tonight,” Camryn said.

  “Oooh, that’s exactly how much the pair of shoes I’ve been stalking at Saks are,” Ashleigh said, rubbing her hands together in glee. She bowed in the direction of the door. “Thanks, Paula.”

  Camryn adjusted the strap of her pocketbook on her shoulder. “Since I had to clear my calendar anyway, should we go somewhere and grab dinner?”

  “Absolutely! I know this adorable new bistro at Saint Armand’s Key,” Ashleigh said. “If we hurry, we can still get in on happy hour martinis.”

  Grace glanced at her watch. “What about Suzanne? Shouldn’t we wait for her? I’d feel bad if she came all the way over here just to turn around and go home again. She’s always so quiet, but I get the feeling we’re the only ones she can really talk to.”

  “Although she hasn’t really told us anything at all,” Ashleigh pointed out. “I’m thinking whatever she did to get Stackpole to order her to therapy must have been really, really radical. And scary.”

  “Scarier than writing on her husband’s mistress’s house and car with blood?” Camryn asked.

  “I told you, it wasn’t blood. It was only red paint,” Ashleigh said. “Although now I kind of wish it had been blood, which would wash off, because I was in such a hurry when I did it, I grabbed oil-based paint. And since my lawyer is making me pay to have the bitch’s house and car repainted, it’s costing me a fortune.”

  As they talked, a Prius rolled up to the office.

  “Oh good, here’s Suzanne now,” Grace said. “Looks like the gang’s all here.”

  “What about Wyatt?” Ashleigh asked. “We can’t leave him behind.”

  “It’s five after,” Grace said. “Maybe he’s ditching us tonight.”

  “Who’s ditching us?” Suzanne asked as she joined the group. “And why are we all standing out here on the sidewalk?”

  “Paula’s got some kind of family emergency,” Grace said, pointing at the note on the door.

  “Allegedly,” Camryn added. “We’re just talking about going out to dinner, since we’re all here anyway. Care to join us?”

  Suzanne hesitated. “Well, since I’m here anyway … but what about Wyatt?”

  Grace made a show of checking her watch again. “He’s probably not even coming tonight. Look, we better get going if we’re going to Saint Armand’s. You know how crowded it gets there.”

  “Saint Armand’s?” Suzanne’s face fell. “I, well, never mind. You all go on without me. I’ll get something to eat on the way home.”

  “No, Suzanne,” Grace protested. “We don’t have to go to Saint Armand’s, if you have a problem with that. We could go anywhere.”

  “What’s your problem with Saint Armand’s?” Ashleigh asked. She was promptly given a not-so-subtle elbow in the ribs from Camryn.

  “Why don’t we just go over to the Sandbox, like we usually do?” Camryn said. “I’m not really in the mood for a twelve-dollar martini tonight anyway. Your mom serves food, right, Grace?”

  “Sure, anything you want, as long as it’s fried.”

  “Then it’s settled,” Camryn said. “Suzanne, do you need a ride? I can drop you back here afterward.”

  As they headed for their cars, Grace took a quick look around, mentally crossing her fingers and hoping Wyatt would not drive up as they were leaving.

  When she got home, she bounded up the outside stairs at the Sandbox, unlocked her bedroom door, and opened the top of the tote bag. Sweetie climbed out, yawned widely, then hopped onto the bed.

  “Good girl,” Grace laughed. “I’ll be back in a couple hours or so, and we’ll take a quick walk before bedtime.” She scratched the dog’s ears and earned a generous tail wag for her efforts.

  * * *

  “You’re early,” Rochelle said when Grace strolled into the bar. “But I already reserved your table. Where are the rest?”

  “They’ll be along,” Grace said, moving toward the table. “Could you bring some menus when they get here? We’re going to have dinner.”

  A few minutes later, Rochelle appeared with menus, a glass of wine for Grace, and a basket of popcorn for the middle of the table. “Did your therapist pass out on you again?”

  “She wasn’t there,” Grace said, helping herself to a handful of popcorn. “There was a note on the door saying she’d had some kind of family emergency. Very cryptic. Very mysterious.”

  * * *

  “Does anybody really believe Paula had an emergency tonight?” Ashleigh speared a french fry with the tip of her fork and chewed slowly. “I mean, I find it hard to believe Paula even has a family. She’s just so … spacey. I mean, can you imagine having her for a mom? Or a wife?”

  “It might not be something with a child or a husband,” Suzanne said timidly. “Maybe she has elderly parents. A friend I teach with has to use up every day of her sick leave and vacation time caring for her mother and her aunt, who both have dementia.”

  Grace tore off a piece of her patty melt and chewed slowly. “I was thinking it could have something to do with Paula’s behavior last Wednesday night. She was definitely on edge.”

  “Family emergency, my ass,” Camryn said. She squirted ketchup on her burger. “I knew all along there was something odd about that woman…” She broke off her sentence.

  “Oh, my precious baby Jesus! Will you look at that boy’s poor face?”

  They all turned to see what she was talking about. And that’s when they spotted a familiar-looking figure, threading his way through the maze of tables and chairs in their direction.

  He was still dressed in the neatly pressed navy slacks and dress shirt he’d worn to court earlier in the day, and the bill of the baseball cap was still tilted low over his eyes, but he’d removed the sunglasses.

  “How’d he find us?” Grace muttered, but as he got closer to the table and she saw his face, she gasped aloud.

  “Hey, ladies,” Wyatt said. He pulled a chair from a nearby table and sat down. He nodded curtly at Grace. Before he could say anything else, Rochelle arrived with a pitcher of beer and two glasses. She poured one and handed it to him, then sat down and poured a glass for herself. Rochelle reached out and gently touched Wyatt’s cheek. “Your face! Did you fall into a fire-ant hill?”

  “Not exactly. I did something even stupider. I purposely cut down a Brazilian pepper tree.”

  “That’s bad?” Camryn asked.

  “It is if you’re allergic to the sap, which I apparently am,” Wyatt said. He tried to smile, but his stiff, swollen lips were nearly immobile. “I know it looks pretty gnarly, but this is actually an improvement. My aunt dragged me to a doctor, and he gave me a cortisone shot and some steroid cream, so I’m starting to feel semihuman again, even if my face does look like a piece of raw me
at.”

  Ashleigh leaned her body across Suzanne’s to get a closer examination, and to give her pseudo-professional opinion. “Hmm. It looks like the eruptions haven’t scabbed over. That’s a good thing. I’d hate for you to have scars all over that pretty face of yours.”

  Wyatt ducked his head, obviously embarrassed by all the attention.

  “What can I get you to eat?” Rochelle asked. “Hamburger? Wings? Loaded potato skins?”

  “Nothing, thanks,” he said. “I had a late lunch after my date with Stackpole.”

  “Stackpole?” Grace stared, wondering what he’d been up to, halfway dreading the answer.

  “Yeahhh,” he said slowly. “It’s kind of a long story.” And then his face cracked painfully, but he smiled anyway.

  “Well, since Paula called off our session, we’ve got all night,” Camryn said. “So don’t keep us in suspense.”

  He filled them in on Callie’s efforts to get him into hot water with the judge, and how his lawyer had instead managed to turn the tables on her.

  “Wyatt, that’s huge!” Suzanne said, beaming. “I’m so happy for you.” She looked at the other faces around the table. “We’re all happy for you.”

  Grace saw Wyatt watching for her reaction. “It’s great, really,” she said. “For once, the good guy comes out ahead with that clown Stackpole.”

  “Thanks, Grace,” he said. “Maybe he’ll change his mind about you and Ben, too.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that,” Grace said. “I’m a woman, remember? I’m the gender he loves to hate.”

  “Did you, uh, tell everybody about last week?”

  Grace blushed at the memory.

  “What?” Ashleigh demanded. “Did something happen after we left here?”

  “You might say that,” Wyatt said. Had Grace imagined it, or had he actually winked at her? She’d hoped to avoid any mention of their late-night chase the previous week.

  “We don’t actually know for sure that the car was Stackpole’s,” she put in, when he was done.

  “Although…” Wyatt was trying his best not to look smug, but it was a hard-fought battle. “Today, while I was at the courthouse, my aunt and I took a drive through the county parking deck. Did you guys know judges get assigned parking spaces?”

  “They probably don’t even have to pay for ’em, either,” Camryn said. And then she perked up. “Stackpole drives a Lexus?”

  “A black one,” Wyatt said, “with a little Florida gator decal in the lower left corner of his rear window.”

  Grace grinned despite herself. “So, it was Stackpole!”

  “Maybe,” Camryn cautioned. “Half the judges in this state probably have a UF Gator sticker on their car. And of those, there’s probably a whole bunch of them who drive a black Lexus.”

  “But there’s only one judge in Manatee County who drives a black Lexus with a UF sticker and who resides at 4462 Alcazar Trace, Longboat Key. And that is the Honorable Judge Cedric N. Stackpole Jr.” Wyatt said.

  “You’re sure?” Grace asked.

  “Yup. Betsy did an online search. It’s him.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Rochelle said. “What do you think that means?”

  “I knew it!” Ashleigh said. “You can always tell with those straitlaced types. They’re the biggest horn-dogs on the block. And, of course, they’re always married.”

  “It might not mean anything,” Grace cautioned, although she hoped against hope it did. “Maybe they were just having a professional meeting, and he told her he didn’t like the way she was conducting our group session.”

  Camryn was drumming her long acrylic fingertips on the tabletop. “Okay, y’all, I’ll tell you what I think it means. I think it means a hard-nosed piece of investigative journalism will unveil a web of intrigue and paybacks between a respected local circuit court judge and a disgraced therapist. And I think, maybe, just maybe, it might mean a daytime Emmy for a certain hard-hitting member of the News Four You I-Team.”

  She held up her iPhone. “I’ve been doing a little dirt digging on my own.”

  30

  “Paula Talbott-Sinclair,” Camryn said, pausing for dramatic effect, “used to live in Oregon. But three years ago, the state revoked her professional license. She moved to Florida sometime after that and set up an office here, but she’s not licensed by the state of Florida to be a clinical therapist. So how does she get away with charging three hundred dollars an hour for a group session? And more importantly, when the phone book is full of marriage counselors, why does Stackpole insist people like us attend counseling sessions with her?”

  “Do we know why they revoked her license in Oregon?” Suzanne asked. “And does the state of Florida require her to be licensed in order to be a therapist here?”

  “This is Florida, honey,” Camryn told her. “Just like we attract every kind of poisonous reptile, bug, or plant, every whacked-out criminal, huckster, or con artist, we also get every loony-toon variety of self-appointed therapist on the planet. Even though Florida seems to have pretty strict licensing requirements for therapists, there’s always a loophole. So you could still call yourself something else, hell, you could call yourself a divorce whisperer, and as long as you have a business license from the county, you’re good to go. Paula does have that. I checked. As for why Oregon took away her professional accreditation, I’m working on it, but it’s slowgoing. All these state licensing boards have layers and layers of confidentiality rules. I’ve got an intern at the station working on trying to dig up the particulars, but so far we’re getting sandbagged.”

  “I wonder if her losing her license had anything to do with drugs?” The others at the table turned to look at Grace.

  “She’s obviously impaired, at least some of the time. And we did find those sleeping pills and tranquilizers in her purse,” Grace reasoned. “Camryn, can your intern check to see if she’s had any drug arrests, or something like that?”

  “I can ask,” Camryn said. “But this kid’s no rocket scientist.”

  “I don’t care what she’s done or how she lost her license,” Suzanne spoke up. “Paula is obviously troubled, but I honestly believe she cares about us. I don’t know about you guys, but she’s helped me. A lot. I feel sorry for her. Can’t we help her, instead of making her part of an exposé?”

  Ashleigh laughed. “You think she’s helped you? I mean, no offense, Suzanne, but you’ve never said one thing in group about what happened in your marriage. All we know is that your husband’s name is Eric and he cheated on you with another teacher at your school.”

  “Ashleigh!” Grace chided.

  “I don’t care,” Ashleigh tossed her honey-colored tresses. “We’ve all opened up our innermost secrets, and she just sits there, every week, with her lips zipped.”

  “Something you might try once in a while,” Camryn said.

  “No, Ashleigh’s right,” Suzanne said. “I haven’t been open. And that’s not fair to you or me. That’s one reason I was so disappointed our session with Paula was canceled tonight. That question she asked us Wednesday night—the one about a moment with our spouse when we were happy?” She gave a sheepish smile and pulled her journal out of her pocketbook. “I wrote ten pages! Which is hard for me to believe right now, but I did.”

  “Well? Are you gonna read it?” Ashleigh asked, daring the others to shut her up.

  Suzanne glanced at the table directly behind them, where two grizzled fishermen sporting three-day beards and sweat-stained T-shirts lolled backward in their chairs, obviously interested in their conversations. “It’s sort of private,” she whispered.

  “Let me handle this,” Rochelle said. She stood, hands on hips and faced the table. “Miller, Bud, you guys need to pay up and move on.” She jerked her head in the direction of the door. The men scowled but pulled some rumpled bills from their pockets, threw them on the table, and ambled toward the bar.

  “Nuh-uh,” Rochelle called, following in their wake. “You two are done for
the night. Unless you plan to actually buy a drink or some food.”

  “Oh no, Grace, make her stop,” Suzanne blurted. “I don’t want your mom to chase off paying customers for me, especially your regulars.”

  Grace rolled her eyes. “They’re her regular deadbeats. That’s not even their real names. She just calls them that because that’s what they order. A Bud and a Miller. But only one. They eat a boatload of popcorn and generally annoy all our paying customers. Plus, they stink to high heavens. And they’re crappy tippers. Believe me, they’ll be back tomorrow. They’re shameless barflies.”

  Rochelle shooed the men out the front door, then returned to the table. “What were you saying, Suzanne?”

  Suzanne took another deep breath. “If you guys really want to hear it, I think I’m ready. Don’t worry,” she added hastily. “I won’t read all ten pages. I’ll give you the abridged version.”

  She took a gulp of wine and laughed nervously. “Liquid courage, right?”

  * * *

  “It was a Saturday night, and our daughter Darby was playing in an out-of-town soccer tournament. I guess I am the ultimate soccer mom. Usually Darby and I share a room during the tournaments, because Eric rarely goes, and I love giggling and gossiping with her. We are so much closer than most moms and daughters. But this time, Darby specifically asked me not to go because she wanted to room with her two best friends, so I stayed home.

  “At first, Eric and I didn’t know what to do with ourselves on a Saturday night alone! We talked about going out to a nice restaurant, but it was raining out, so instead we stayed home. Eric did something he hadn’t done since the years when we first moved in together. He fixed me my favorite dish and cleaned up the kitchen, too. After dinner, we opened a good bottle of wine, and we sat on the sofa together and dialed up a movie on Netflix, a silly little chick flick. But it made us laugh, and parts of it were so romantic. I was stretched out on one end of the sofa, with my shoes off, and Eric was giving me a foot massage. And it was just … so sweet, and tender. I just, I don’t know, got really turned on.”