Bullet in the Night (26 page)

“Yes, a completely subjective evaluation.” He picked up a carved ivory letter opener on his desk and drummed it into his hand. “Basically, Lenora criticized my directive style with clients. I’m a problem-solver. I favored William Glasser’s pro-active Reality Therapy, very solution-oriented.”

“Sounds logical to me.”

“Not to her. Lenora was a devotee of Carl Rogers’s non-directive method. Rogers, before he died, admitted his theory was ineffective and rejected it.”

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other and wished we were having this discussion sitting. “Theories come and go. You’re saying Lenora used a difference of professional approaches to discriminate against you?”

“You bet she did. Only on paper were students free to determine their counseling style; professors pushed pet theories. I knew this caused her rejection of me. Frankly, I don’t think she cared much for my conservative politics on campus either.”

I tried to conceal my frown. This sounded unjust and unlike Lenora. “So you fought her decision?”

“Naturally. To say I was miffed is putting it mildly. I complained to her to no avail. Then I appealed to the administration, protesting I hadn’t been given a fair evaluation.”

“Then you stalked her...”

He shrugged. “No. She objected to giving me another hearing. I wanted to talk her into an independent review.”

“And she still refused?” Despite Hartford’s lack of invitation, I lowered myself into an arm chair.

“Absolutely. I was furious.” He followed suit.

“Filled with rage?”

“Yes, I admit it. Back then.”

“What happened next?” My eyes probed his.

“Another professor encouraged me to give up on it. Said I’d get nowhere. I slid into clinical depression for six months. The experience was hard on my marriage, naturally distressing to my young wife. We’d only been married a short time. I was unable to work.”

“What came out of the appeal to the school?”

“It went nowhere. Lenora’s decision, despite being subjective, carried weight. She triumphed, and I was out on my rear. It was humiliating. I didn’t want my friends to know. Only my wife knew what really happened.”

I shook my head slowly left to right. “I’m sorry.”

He smiled. “Years later I could admit Lenora was right.”

“Why keep it secret if you benefited?”

“Shame. The Master’s program is the only thing I’ve ever failed at in my life.”

“You’ve done well since.” My glance roved over the ostentatious surroundings.

“Quite.” Satisfaction rang from his voice but no haughtiness. He pressed his palms together. “Eventually I sought help for my depression, received counseling, and in time, pursued my hobby of computers.”

“Back to your recent visit. You went specifically to see Lenora?”

“No. I was attending a computer programmer conference at Grand Geneva, a resort in the area. But why are you asking? You know I saw Lenora then or you wouldn’t be here.”

“That’s true. But I don’t know why.”

“Why I took the trouble to look her up?” He sighed. “I’ve asked myself, too. It’s hard to explain. A journey into the past where I lacked closure, I suppose. Perhaps, simply pride. I wanted her to know what I’d achieved as a result of what she did to me.”

Hartford gestured around the room at his trophy-laden bookcases and awards peppering every bit of available wall space. “Unjust as it was, I believe everything turned out well. We had a brief visit, satisfying to me all the same.”

I pictured his hands working a computer keyboard, then imagined him holding a rifle. “Your being there the day Lenora was shot is an amazing coincidence.”

He bristled. “I suppose one could call it that. So?”

“Quite a shift of focus to computers.”

“Yes, and it turned out I had a natural affinity. I started manufacturing and selling hardware, then software. My timing for entering the field couldn’t have been better. In a perverse way, I owe everything I’ve achieved to Lenora. The outcome but not the circumstances of my dismissal brought me a great deal of happiness. Hardly a reason to shoot someone.” A shadow crossed his face. “Except…”

“Except what?”

“My wife Sheila’s dilemma...” His eyes darted toward the door. “But that’s a separate issue.”

“What do you mean?”

He sighed. “At the time of my expulsion from the counseling program, Sheila was three months pregnant. She’d started spotting. The doctor wanted her to stay off her feet. With me clinically depressed and unable to work, Sheila had become our breadwinner. I took out a loan, but it wasn’t enough. She insisted on keeping her job.”

“Despite the strain?”

“Financial debt was a source of fear for her.”

A tap on the door interrupted us. We turned as a lithe, five-foot, obviously athletic woman strolled in. A whiff of gardenias flooded the room.

She gave Hartford a peck on his cheek. “So this is where you’re hiding. Our guests are asking for you, darling.” She turned to me. “And you are?”

Hartford straightened as he introduced her. “Sheila, this is Ms. Trevor.”

Her hand stayed at her side so I didn’t extend mine. How could her eyes reflect ice while the tone of her “Hello” was so sweet? I shivered.

Her thin lips enlarged by dark orange lipstick curved into a slight smile. Her deeply tanned skin contrasted starkly with her blonde hair. Had he told her previously about my coming?

“Dr. Trevor was in the area and stopped by to discuss our recent trip to Lake Geneva. We have a mutual acquaintance there.”

Can facial features become concrete in seconds? It seemed hers did as her eyes became daggers. She eyed me up and down like a slab of beef.

I sucked in air, pulled my shoulders back, and gave Sheila my best smile, envying her tight tummy. She probably did forty abdominal crunches a day. “Did you enjoy your visit to Lake Geneva?”

“Loved the resort. We didn’t see much of the town.” Her words dripped out like a politician’s.

A memory of my senior year popped into my brain—the clicky cute cheerleaders.

“Excuse me, I must get back to our guests. Hurry please, darling.” Sheila stretched out the last word reminiscent of Ava Gabor. “May I say you’re coming any minute?”

He nodded. “Absolutely dear.”

Sheila swirled out, but her gardenia trail remained.

The way Hartford gazed after her spoke of his affection.

I let out a deep breath. “You were elaborating about Lenora’s decision to dismiss you from the graduate program being hard on your wife as well?”

“Sadly, soon afterward she miscarried.”

“I’m sorry.”

Anguish was visible in his eyes. “We thought there’d be other kids, but she was never able to conceive again. It was rough at first. Eventually, Sheila had to have a hysterectomy. She still blames Lenora for her childlessness. I wanted to adopt, but Sheila wanted children of our own. It’s harder than ever for her as she approaches menopause.”

And she saw a chance for her to get even, but I didn’t say it aloud.

“Sheila pours herself into our animals. Treats them as if they’re children.” He cocked his head to one side. “I’m not sure I’d have been a good dad.” He diverted his eyes and swallowed hard.

I looked away.

Hartford composed himself and resumed. “Dr. Trevor, my subsequent success eliminates any motive to shoot Lenora, although I will admit in an earlier timeframe, I’d have liked to kill her, if I were the killing type, mind you. I wasn’t then, and I’m not now. Do you believe that?”

“Frankly, I don’t know what to think.”

“Well then, that’s your problem. It’s regrettable the timing of Lenora’s accident, but it’s unrelated. I used my trip as an opportunity to apologize to Lenora in person. She was fine the day I left and appreciated that I’d come.”

“Lenora’s cleaning lady heard you yelling. What was it that you argued about?” I was begging the question, but it might get me more information.

“She mistook me with someone else.” Hartford drummed his fingers on the desktop. “We didn’t have a cross word. I expressed my gratitude.”

I wanted to test his anger potential. “Your wife’s distress gave you a motive for revenge. Sheila, too. Might this have festered into a motive for revenge in your wife? I’m not saying she pulled the trigger, but she could have hired someone. Your visit might have stirred up her pain again.”

Hartford glared at me. “Don’t go there! Sheila didn’t shoot anyone nor did I.” His face turned deep red. “It’s time for you to leave, Dr. Trevor. You’ve overextended your welcome. The maid will show you to the door.” Hartford marched out and summoned his maid.

So much for ruling him or his wife out as a suspect.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Nick and I arrived home after midnight. I slept well until seven a.m. when I hugged my children who greeted me happily jumping on our bed. They warmed my spirit as much as the emerging sunshine beaming through the skylights.

Jenny flopped next to Nick while Tara and Collin sat on the edge and chattered.

“I don’t like it when you go away,” Jenny announced. “But I like having Aunt Joy and Uncle Dave play Monopoly with me and Scrabble with Collin. Aunt Joy always wins.”

“I’m glad you had fun, but I missed you, precious kiddos. Get dressed now. On the way to school I want to hear more.”

I savored the children’s reports and regretted having to drop them at school.

My first client called, saying she’d be late. Fine by me. I could use some quiet time.

I opened my purse Bible to Hebrews, Chapter 11 for a nugget of spiritual nourishment. “Faith is the assurance of things unseen.” Good memory verse I noted. I repeated it several times as I awaited a call from Tucker.

A decision had been made to try to wean Lenora from the ventilator. The doctors wanted to see if she could sustain her own breathing. Today would be the test.
Lord, You are still a healing God. Fervently, I beg you to heal Lenora.
As I prayed, my eyes noticed a spot on my office wall where the paint had gobbed.

Ellen flitted in. “Your husband’s on line one.” Soundlessly, her rubber-bottomed shoes turned back to the waiting room as I reached for the phone.

“Hi, sweetheart. I got some info on Lenora’s group of ex-cons from our PI. He found every recently released ex-convict she aided except one gal they couldn’t track down. All the others have a solid alibi for the night Lenora was shot, and there’s no apparent motives to link any of them with Lenora’s shooting.”

“Who’s the one he can’t find?”

“Name’s Sarah Nichols.”

I made a note on my iPhone. “Thank him for me. He’s been a huge help. You, too, by the way. Maybe my friend, Inspector Jarston from the Dells, can find something on this gal.”

I strolled out to Ellen’s desk and rattled off her explicit TO DO list. I took a deep re-focusing breath and returned to my office to review notes on my next client.

Tucker buzzed an hour later. “Good news.’ He sighed. “Lenora’s off the ventilator.”

“Great! Hey, you sound exhausted.”

“It’s been stressful, that’s all. Her lungs are maintaining a steady oxygen level. There’s no guarantee she can sustain her own breathing, but the doctors are hopeful.” I detected a tremor in his voice.

“I’ll stop by the hospital on my way home.”

“The nurse said it takes about twenty-four hours for the effects of the drugs to wear off. She may not even remember the shooting because of being in a coma. Don’t expect much.”

“I’d still like to see her as soon as possible.”

“She won’t be herself for a while. Promise you won’t upset her by mentioning the shooting.”

I agreed.

He hung up.

I bowed my head and whispered aloud, “God, thank You. If not today, hopefully the questions surrounding the attack upon Lenora can be answered soon.”

My thoughts returned to Nick’s phone call. Who was this ex-convict, Sarah Nichols, who had completely disappeared into society so that none of her family or former acquaintances knew where to contact her? And why? Had she returned to a life of crime? Was she involved in Lenora’s shooting?

I punched in Detective Jarston’s number and waded through two screeners to him. It helped to have friends in high places—sort of a friend, sort of a high place, anyway. I’d met him when he was a detective in the Wisconsin Dells area, and we worked together to solve Albert Windemere’s murder. He now handled special assignments in semi-retirement, not that he was old, probably mid-sixties.

His gravelly voice barked, “To what do I owe this surprise?”

“I notice you didn’t say pleasure,” I bantered.

“Implied, of course, but I need to know the nature of this contact before I become ebullient.”

I laughed. “I haven’t heard that word in a while.” Jarston loved the English language, the longer the word the better. Why a five-letter-word when he could come up with an eight or ten-letter one? And the quicker the repartee, the better.

“Let me guess. You’re involved in another murder?”

“An attempted one.” I told him about Lenora’s shooting.

“You seem to have a flair for attracting intrigue. I hope you’re limiting your involvement to paperwork and phone calls. You know how I feel about women in police work. There’s no reason for…”

I interrupted. “Chivalry lives as long as your blood flows. I’d simply like to tap your information network for a female ex-convict we can’t trace. Sarah Nichols is her prison name. It appears she’s gone to some pains to conceal her identity.”

“Why?”

“That’s what I want to know. A hunch is all I’ve got.”

Jarston harrumphed. “Hunches are usually a waste of time. How long ago was she released?”

“Three months ago.”

“We’ll do what we can.” Jarston used the plural pronoun like royalty. “It may take a while.”

“This is urgent. Can you speed? Like twenty-four hours?”

“I can’t promise, but I’ll try.”

“You’re a dear.”

“Maybe a buffalo, never a deer.”

CHAPTER FORTY

When I stepped off the hospital elevator on the fifth floor, memories slammed into my brain. I’d spent enough time in hospitals while our son was treated for leukemia to despise the hubbub of medical machinery, the somber hushed voices of family members, and the scurrying of staff that never stopped. It simply changed pace from daytime rush to nighttime slow and names and faces of people were new.