by N. C. Lewis
"All going well?" Dr. Walden asked, peering through his open office door. In his hand he held a small glass tumbler.
"Yep, I've updated the appointment book. Will look at organizing the files," Noel replied.
Ice tinkled as Dr. Walden swirled the amber liquid. "No!" He took a sip from the tumbler. "Leave the files alone. They contain confidential information. I like it as it is." He closed his office door.
With nothing much to do Noel took out his cellphone, pulled up Facebook and read recent posts. A friend had posted one of those funny cat videos—a kitten riding on the back of a tortoise followed by another attacking a mirror.
"Señor, I look for Dr. Walden. Is here in office?"
Noel glanced up, cheesy grin on his face, to see a short, dark woman of indeterminate age.
The woman eyed him nervously. "Dr. Walden, he expect me."
Noel wiped the grin from his face, put on his professional voice. "And your name?"
"No give name."
That caught Noel's attention. He glanced at the afternoon appointments. So this must be M.R. he thought. "Go right through, the doctor is waiting."
The woman scurried to Dr. Walden's office door. As it closed, he realized he had seen her before.
For several moments he plumbed the depths of his mind trying to recall where he had met her. At the checkout of the local supermarket? No, the checkout woman who always smiled at him was much younger. What about the server at the coffee shop? No, no, she was thinner. So exactly where had he met the mysterious M.R. before?
Frustrated, he glanced around the reception area: first at the clock on the pine wall, which seemed to count the seconds slower every time he looked at it, then at the battered filing cabinet which he now realized had a lock to protect its contents from unauthorized prying eyes. Finally, he gazed at Dr. Walden's framed news articles about his practice.
Noel stood up, walked purposefully toward the nearest framed news story. The paper, yellowed and faded with age, was from almost two decades ago. He turned to examine another. It too was discolored and dated back twenty-five years. He read:
Austin Shrink Uses Chess Therapy to Cure Folks.
Got a head problem? Dr. Walden, a practicing psychologist and chess master, has a new angle that might just work—chess therapy. 'Using the game of chess to improve mental health dates back to Persian scholar Rhazes (AD 852–932) who worked as chief physician at a Baghdad hospital,' stated Dr. Walden.
But how does it work?
Dr. Walden claims rooks, pawns, bishops, knights and even the king and queen allow patients to act out fantasies and explore impulses. 'I question a client why they have moved a piece in a certain way. I find it often leads to a conversation about a difficult childhood issue.'
Whether you play the game, Dr. Walden's chess therapy clinic might be worth a try. You never know, you might just checkmate your mental problems.
Jack Skanky, junior investigative reporter.
It was then Noel realized M.R. was the gofer and cleaner at Battle Equity Partners. He'd only met her on a couple of occasions, but it was her; he was certain of that. Now, he tried to recall her name. Again, he searched his memory. It wasn't long before he came up with the answer—he didn't know. He couldn't remember the name of the uniformed man who greeted him cheerfully every morning and evening at his London apartment, let alone the name of the cleaner he'd never spoken to.
Noel glanced at the closed office door. He couldn’t imagine the woman could afford to pay for Dr. Walden's services. He glanced at the clock. She'd been in with the doctor for ten minutes. Obviously, this wasn't a casual visit. What were they discussing?
He slumped in his chair gazing idly at the clock, intending to sit there, awake, thinking of nothing in particular, until the hands of the clock pointed to quarter to four and it would be time to prepare to leave.
But it was silent in the office, and the ticking of the clock made it hard to think of nothing. Noel's mind wandered from Sage Oats to the Indian drummer and then finally to M.R. There they lingered as his imagination concocted wild stories of why this diminutive woman was visiting with Dr. Walden.
He was pretty sure this wasn't a regular consultation, not that he had seen that since starting work this morning. But he felt certain something odd was afoot. The politician, Sage Oats, the Indian drummer, and now the mysterious M.R.
Finally, he sat very still for a moment, drumming his hand on the desk. Then he stood up. Would he discover what was going on if he leaned his ear against the office door, again? He was 100 percent certain the voices would be audible. He told himself if it seemed like a regular consultation his mind would be at ease and that would be the end of the matter. And yet… if it wasn't, what would he do?
With stealth, Noel walked toward Dr. Walden's office door, treading lightly on the rough concrete floor. A few feet from the door, he stopped, listening intently, the sound of mumbled voices barely audible. Then he leaned in, placed his ear hard against the cold pine wood.
The door flew open.
Noel fell forward almost knocking Dr. Walden to the ground.
"What the hell?" Dr. Walden shouted, regaining his balance, eyes flashing with rage.
Noel's mind raced for a plausible explanation. Before he could speak, the woman screamed. "He is listening at door! Is government agent? I no stay." She slipped past the two men.
"Mrs. Riera, I'm sure there is a reasonable explanation," Dr. Walden called after her. But she didn’t stop and hurried through the reception area, out into the street.
"I was checking to see if you were nearly finished," Noel said in a hurried voice. "It is time for me to leave, and I just wanted to check in with you." He nodded toward the clock.
Dr. Walden didn’t answer immediately. He stared at Noel as if considering his options. Then he spoke in a clear, deliberate tone. "Next time… Mr. Laird… please knock."
Chapter 18
Amy let out a satisfied sigh as she placed the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher. Ruby had gone shopping with a friend, Nick to work, and she had prepared breakfast for Noel on the first day of his new, and she hoped temporary, job working for Dr. Walden. Now she had the place to herself and a long list of things to do. First, though, her morning coffee and the Austin American Statesman. Then she'd review the appointments for Studio Shoal Seven.
The Danny Fontane case was plastered across the front page.
No Leads and No Progress in the Slaying of Austin Celebrity.
"Austin Police Department spokesperson, Brendan Rendell, said the department was investigating several leads, but as of yet, had not identified a person of interest. 'It is our top priority, and our team of detectives will pursue all leads until we bring the perpetrator to justice.' Later Mr. Rendell confirmed that Mr. Fontane had financial problems and that drugs were found in the body but refused to provide further details. With little progress in this and a long slew of other unsolved murders, questions are being raised by opposing politicians in city hall about the…"
Amy put down the newspaper and wondered if the murder might boost business. That's what had happened when Studio Shoal Seven was caught up in a murder at a local bookstore. "I'm almost fully booked, so I don’t think I can take on any more clients," she said to herself. "But if they call…"
Now Amy thought about Danny Fontane. She cringed at the image of his body slumped on the study floor, his battered face, and his empty eyes wide open as if asking for help. The Austin Police Department would do their best; she knew that. But would it be enough?
What did Nick say about the case? Yes, Mary Wilson was working it. Detective Wilson thought it was a burglary gone wrong. It sounded plausible, but Nick wasn't convinced.
Amy tried to puzzle it out but couldn’t get over why the killer chose the date of the relaunch party; that made little sense… unless the killer intended to leave something rather than steal it. Something hot, something Danny ordered but didn’t want others to know about. Could it be the person who kille
d Danny was delivering drugs? Perhaps Danny refused or couldn’t pay the usual amount, and a struggle ensued. She called Nick.
"Hello darling," Nick said picking up on the first ring.
"I've been thinking about the Danny Fontane case."
"What ya got?"
Amy explained.
"Possible… " Nick said when she had finished. "It's not a line Detective Wilson is pursuing. She's working seven active cases, and her team is understaffed. I can't do much…"
Amy understood but felt she had to do something. "When will you try again with Lieutenant Kostopoulos?"
There was a pause, followed by a deep sigh. "The lieutenant was adamant, wants me to focus on the lollipop work. I guess the chief thinks it'll give him more brownie points from city hall."
"But today's Statesman said the murder has riled the opposition. They are up in arms about the unsolved cases. Don't you think it will concern the chief?"
"He who pays the piper," Nick replied wistfully. "I'll run your idea by Detective Wilson and put out feelers to my contacts on the street."
Along with most other Austinites, Amy had watched the battle between the two political parties play out in city hall. That the balance of power lay in the hands of a few independently minded councilmen had led to some fiery debates. The prospect of power shifting to the opposition party was a real prospect, one Amy thought, the chief of police was well aware of.
And so on this Monday morning, Amy wrote three letters: one to her councilman, another to the mayor, and a third to the chief of police. All were urging more resources to be allocated to solving outstanding homicides in the city.
Satisfied she had acted, no matter how small, and hoping other townsfolk would do the same, she returned to her list. Top priority—reviewing the bookings for Studio Shoal Seven.
As she picked up the appointment book, her cell phone rang. Amy recognized the number of a client and answered on the second ring with her professional business voice. "Studio Shoal Seven, satisfying your staging needs… Hello, Mrs. Lopresti… busy, I know, yes I'm fully booked, thanks to you… Cancel?… Why?… Danny Fontane murder… I see… I understand… Okay. Uh-huh. I will… Thank you for letting me know… Bye."
And so it was throughout the entire morning, with client after client calling to cancel. The news of Danny Fontane's death had traveled fast, and it seemed to Amy the news she had staged his final photo shoot traveled even faster.
At noon, Amy's cell phone fell silent. She sat down at the kitchen table, stared at the almost empty appointment book, tugged at her hair, and stewed. "What just happened?"
In a matter of hours the news had decimated her bookings, the business now hung by a shoestring, and she still had furniture suppliers to pay.
The cell phone interrupted her misery.
Amy peered at the screen, giving a sigh of relief on realizing it was Danielle.
"Amy girl, you've been popular today. This is the third time I've called you this morning."
"What's up?"
"Just a sec," Danielle replied. "I have a call on the other line."
Amy hung on the line for several minutes. She knew if Danielle had called three times without leaving a message it was important. After pouring a cup of coffee, adding sugar and half-and-half, she sat down at the kitchen table, cell phone pressed hard against her ear.
But still, the line was silent. Amy was pretty sure this meant that Danielle was taking an important call. They had chatted thousands of times on the phone, and this was the first time Danielle had made her hold for this long. Something was wrong.
For several more minutes she waited, tugging her hair, biting her lip, and sipping from the coffee cup.
"Phew!" Danielle said at last. "Amy, are you still there?"
Amy couldn't contain herself any longer. "Danielle, what happened? Is Stan okay? What's going on?"
The sigh came first, followed by Danielle's voice. "Amy girl, I was just speaking to a client for Studio Shoal Seven. They couldn’t get through to you… so they called me… to cancel. I've taken three other calls like that this morning!"
Chapter 19
That night, with Nick snoring gently beside her, Amy lay in bed awake, gazing at the curtainless windows that looked out onto the yard and street beyond. The windows were one of several fine period details that gave the house its character. When she and Nick purchased the house several decades ago it was in a poor state of repair. A detective's pay doesn’t stretch far, so they bought the cheapest house in the best area they could afford. Fortunately, they had chosen well. Then they hired a skilled craftsman to restore the property to its former glory. It took several years, and a tight budget, but it was worth it. But, she reflected, it was the family that turned it from a fine Southern Colonial into a home.
Amy felt now as if enemy forces were advancing, throwing her and Nick's financial plans off balance. When she set up the business it was with the hope it would provide an interesting hobby and income to supplement Nick's salary. From the start it had been profitable, but now like a sudden pop-up summer storm the profits had vanished, and she was looking at debt and feeling miserable.
Amy breathed rapidly as a few tears trickled down her cheeks, then caught herself in a tidal wave of guilt. She had so much when others had so little. Who was she to weep over lost business when millions would go hungry tonight? She and Nick had so much compared to the multitude of homeless people living rough on the streets of Austin. Perhaps the business was a mistake, and she should let it slip away to its own grave.
"What is it?" Nick asked, suddenly awake, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. "Honey, what's wrong?"
An hour later, when she had finished, Nick did what he always did, what she loved him for. He soothed her nerves, told her things would work out, that she would have a clearer head in the morning, that they would work through it together, and that he would do what he could to investigate the Danny Fontane case with or without the blessing of the lieutenant.
At last, under the covers, she felt the approach of the gentle mist of sleep. Her eyelids grew heavy, and her jangled nerves relaxed. The worries over bookings seemed to fade into the friendly darkness that engulfed her, and she drifted off into a deep, wonderfully peaceful sleep.
It was only when Amy opened her eyes and stared at the bedside clock that she realized sleep had been fleeting. It was two fifteen in the morning, and she was wide awake. Out from under the jumbled images of sleep anxiety wormed its way from her unconscious mind. It nibbled and needled until it broke through into her present consciousness. "Must sleep, must sleep," she whispered over and over again.
Lying very still in bed something from long, long ago, came into partial view. Something Amy had forgotten, let slip from her grasp. Mrs. Penny, Amy's seventh-grade teacher's face appeared. "Whether you think you can or think you can't, you are probably right," she had said, pointing at Amy. "I believe in you; I believe you can. What do you believe?"
A sharp sound caused Amy to sit up. It came from outside, beyond the yard, out in the street. "Car backfiring," she muttered turning to look at the bedside clock. It was five fifteen a.m. "I must have fallen back asleep."
"What?" Nick mumbled.
"Nothing, darling."
It was useless trying for more sleep now. Amy slipped out of bed, taking care not to disturb Nick. In the kitchen she poured a glass of milk, picked up her notebook and pen and wondered what to do next with Studio Shoal Seven. The publicity from helping solve the murder in the bookstore case had been good for business. Maybe, she reasoned, if she could lend a hand with the Danny Fontane case, she might get similar results.
Amy opened up her notebook, twiddled with the pen then put it back down, she wanted someone to bounce her ideas off. It was still early, too early to call Danielle, but she did so anyway.
"Amy girl, the birds aren’t up yet! What’s going on?"
"I've been thinking about things."
"Me too. I call it dreaming!"
"Hi
larious. Listen, I'm going to help Nick solve the murder of Danny Fontane."
There was a slight hesitation on the other end of the line. "What?"
"Hear me out. Business has crashed, right?"
"And?"
"Well maybe, just maybe if we help find the killer, things will turn around."
"We?"
"Want to see Danny Fontane's killer walk free?"
"That's not fair. Anyway, I thought Detective Wilson was working the case."
"She is. And you know as well as I do that she has a baker's dozen other cases to work on at the same time."
"What about Nick?"
"He'll work it on the side, under the radar so to speak."
Danielle fell silent.
"What's up?" Amy asked.
"I can't tell Stan, not after what happened last time."
"We'll be discreet, very discreet, no chance of being held hostage in a hotel room or anything like that. This time we'll take precautions."
"Precautions?"
"Only collect information and pass on what we find to Nick who'll give it to Detective Wilson and her team. Are you in?"
The line fell silent. "You're crazy!"
Amy didn’t answer.
"Okay," Danielle said at last. "I'm in."
"Good. And Danielle."
"Yes?"
"Be sure to tell Stan."
Chapter 20
Nick walked into the kitchen a little after seven in the morning, placed his jacket on the back of a chair at the kitchen table, and glanced around. The coffeemaker bubbled gently with a fresh brew. The savory smells of breakfast—eggs, mushrooms, ham and toast—filled his nostrils. Amy rocked back in her chair reading something on her tablet computer and sipping coffee from a mug. "Morning Nick," she said without looking up.
"Morning, darling," he replied, giving the ritual response to the ritual question. Then he added, "Any more thoughts on the business?"
"Can’t do much about the canceled bookings." She looked up. "Or the deposits I've paid out on furniture. They are nonrefundable."
"I see," said Nick filling a plate with eggs, mushrooms, and two slices of toast. "Well, I guess it is just one of those things." He filled a mug with coffee and sat at the kitchen table. "Any usable lessons?"
