Bullet in the Night (4 page)

I balked at his reference to me but chose to brush it off. “You’re right. Not smart with hate letters coming in—better to use a P.O. box.”

He jerked the door open. “So had Lenora been foolish in trusting Kirk with a position at her Second Chance Foundation? Did he send her to the brink of her death?”

I settled into my seat and waited as he started the engine. “Why would any man shoot his benefactor? What could she ever have done to motivate such hatred?”

Nick posed no answer. We rode home in silence.

Withhold judgment until hearing both sides,
 I coached myself as I did in marriage counseling. I needed to know more about Kirk before making an assessment of him. Hopefully, the folder I held in my hand would help.

Lord, his life is precious to You. Let there be no mistakes made and give us wisdom.

CHAPTER FIVE

Kirk’s file was not my first choice of soothing bedtime stories, but the puzzle of this man’s life haunted me. I couldn’t sleep until I’d at least skimmed the data on Lenora’s alleged attacker.

As I passed Jenny’s bedroom door, file in hand, she called out, “Me first, tonight, Mommy.”

“Okay, sweetie.”

Family was first priority. At bedtime, Jenny, Collin, and Tara waited their turn for me to come into their rooms and “snuggle them up.” I spent ten minutes sitting on the edge of the bed with each child—my chance to find out about their daily joys and problems.

Jenny chattered about a new love for roller-skating.

When I rose to leave, she hugged me. “I love you, Mommy. So much.”

“Me too, more, now and forever, my muffin.”

She mustered an indignant look. “I’m not a muffin.”

“That’s right, you’re my pumpkin.”

She broke into a giggle.

Tara bubbled on about the concert she’d be attending as I stroked her bath-sweet arm with lotion. Her body relaxed with my touch.

Collin wanted to know if I felt better. I assured him I did and patted his head. Sweet son.

With everybody tucked in, I changed into blue silk pajamas, then stretched and lifted weights for ten minutes. No rigorous workouts for me, but I did the minimum to keep me toned.

Chintz-covered pillows against the headboard supported my back as I plopped into bed and stretched my legs on our rose-covered quilt. In the background, the murmur of TV news drifted in from the family room where Nick sat in his recliner. I knew his pattern—alternately watching and dozing.

I braced myself, then picked up Kirk’s folder. If evidence motivating him to shoot Lenora lurked in here, I’d find it.

On page one the last name, Corsini, was followed by the string of digits assigned every ex-con. The numbers assured he’d be known forever in the government. I read on.
Abandoned by parents on drugs at age seven... Twisted leg from a car driven by a drunk driver at fourteen. Married and divorced
. Thus began a veritable history book of crimes.

How sad. Darling of no one. His most recent penal code violations came next. I skipped through to his earliest convictions, starting with adolescent shoplifting then stealing from a gas station. According to the police report, Kirk claimed to have a gun in his pocket, which he later denied. No gun was found. He may have been faking a weapon. Rigid, pointed fingers did the job nicely, no doubt.

Not many holdup victims will risk calling a thief’s bluff with “Show me your gun.”

The squeak of the shower nozzle signaled Nick’s bedtime routine as I continued flipping through the pages. Ten minutes later, fragrant with Old Spice, he appeared in his worn blue terry robe and sat down next to me.

“What’s this?” He picked up a loose sheet and began reading aloud. “Kirk Corsini— conviction for pulling off a three hundred grand jewelry store theft.”

“First felony,” I said over my shoulder. “His accomplice had a real gun and so did the owner. The shopkeeper was killed; Kirk’s accomplice was charged with murder. Kirk became accessory.”

“Heavy-duty.”

“Unfortunately, yes.” I couldn’t conceal the sadness in my voice. “Each of Kirk’s crimes becomes more sophisticated.”

Nick shook his head. “A felon’s twisted version of the social ladder. Always seeking more than he’s willing to earn by honest labor.”

“Glancing at his list of felonies, I couldn’t help but contrast it with Lenora’s resume, all her personal achievements, service committee chairs, memberships, publications.” My voice cracked. “Now Kirk is fully alive and Lenora near death. Does life have a few inequities?”

“God will make all things right someday.” Nick sighed. “I believe that’s true, but it sounds trite to someone who doesn’t believe.”

“See the timeline for Kirk’s release, his subsequent employment, and Lenora’s shooting? Kirk was let out of prison on Saturday and started his job the following Monday. She must have been counseling him in prison to prepare him to start immediately.” I opened a small legal pad to make notations.

Nick paged through the file. “Here’s a conviction for Kirk’s robbery of his second ex-wife’s home.” He pointed to a paragraph on the page. “This resulted in his most recent prison sentence, followed by parole after serving three years. At least he never personally shot anyone.” I jotted down dates and times.

We studied the mug shots next.

“Kirk has a regular album,” I noted. “Weird how his hair went from traditional cut to shaggy, then shoulder length as his crime escalated.”

“Check out his face, too.” Nick’s brow furrowed. “He started clean-shaven, then a mustache, finally a scruffy beard. Maybe more facial hair seemed protective—a natural mask for higher level hits.”

“Or perhaps he started feeling ashamed. Guilt can be powerful.” I pushed my hair back from my face.

“Sounds logical, but it’s a stretch.” Nick turned a page. “On his discharge shots he’s clean shaven again.”

“A good sign, I hope, because this file describes a hardened criminal. No wonder he’s the prime suspect. How many people believe Christ can change a man inside and out?”

“You have to admit, fast transition is rare even for the Holy Spirit. In my work with criminals, it’s not common.” Nick plumped up a pillow under his head and leaned back.

“But not impossible. I see some sudden transformations. Think about the apostle Paul.”

Nick continued to read. “A parole officer reports Kirk connected with Christ in Prison Fellowship and Lenora’s Second Chance Foundation. He credited both for planting seeds of change.”

“Seeds. But had they sprouted? For the sake of Lenora’s foundation, I sure hope so. Lenora’s contact and caring would be huge. I may be optimistic, but I’d sure like to believe he had a genuine conversion.”

Nick rolled over. “Me too, but you can’t deny it’s a big coincidence the shooting occurred so soon after his release.”

I flinched. “Red flags all over, I know. Once upon a long time ago, Kirk must have known better. I bet when his kindergarten teacher asked what he wanted to be, he didn’t say a criminal.”

“How many ex-convicts had Lenora counseled?”

“I’m guessing twenty-five or thirty. She started the foundation about a year and a half ago. The new building is under construction, to be completed in six months. In the meantime, ex-con reorientation sessions were in Lenora’s home.”

“Her attacker could have been any previously released convict with a grudge. But only Kirk had a motive as far as you know, right?”

“Give me time.” I assembled the loose papers and returned them to the folder. “I need the list of the other prisoners Lenora helped. I intend to meet with Kirk as soon as possible, although I’m not looking forward to it. I’m praying for God’s wisdom. I don’t want to mess this up.”

“You won’t. You’re capable, and you care.” Nick edged closer toward me.

“Maybe too much.”

He stroked my hand. “Lenora is your good friend as well as colleague. Can you stay objective?”

“I hope so.”

Nick took the file from me gently, stretched over to put it on the nightstand, then pulled back the bed covers. “Let’s call it a night, Sherlock. Just remember your promise to be careful.”

“I will.” I crawled under, rolled over on top of him, and kissed his ear. “You can be sure I’m not letting you have all the fun raising our kids.”

CHAPTER SIX

Morning brought a milk-glass glow to the pond behind our house. When Nick left to drive our kids to school, I plopped on a porch chair to sip my orange juice, watch birds feast at our feeders, and pray for our family.

A Thank You box and notepad centered on the coffee table reminded all of us to express gratitude daily. I’d have hummed a song with the birds except for the thickening in my throat when I envisioned Lenora lying in a hospital bed.

I put away my prayer journal, dressed quickly, and drove through our quiet neighborhood, inhaling the warm, breezy air.

When I reached downtown Lake Geneva, I zipped into the local Starbucks. Soon the fragrance of vanilla-flavored coffee filled the car. When had this brew or black tea crept upon me as a morning necessity?

I pulled into the lot of the Victorian complex housing my three-room second floor office suite.

Once settled behind the mahogany desk I began my job of listening as clients revealed their concerns. I offered insights to improve their lives as best I could. During a break after my third appointment, I focused my thoughts again on Lenora’s shooting.

If not Kirk, who could have been Lenora’s attacker? An enemy from her past? I knew little about her history prior to our meeting and nothing about her current clients either. Like many professionals in mental health, Lenora worked from an at-home office, giving her clientele the benefit of total privacy.

Who could shed light on the goings-on at Wooded Hill?

I straightened my shoulders and sat back suddenly. Of course, Estelle. I swiveled to the console behind me. She may have observed something.

I reached for my phone, flipped to the “M” in my addresses, and pressed my finger on the number for Estelle Mason, the cleaning lady I’d recommended when Lenora moved here. She cleaned for me, too, but only for special occasions. Nick and I insisted the children assume some responsibility for household chores.

I pictured Estelle, a 250-pound dynamo who operated in only one gear, high, and recollected with delight how chatty she was. In addition to house cleaning and mothering three children, Estelle sold hand-sewn and knitted items and beadwork at craft shows. We often joked about how different we were. I hated scrubbing floors, sinks—you name it—but loved hiking, biking or reading anything, even box tops in a clinch. Estelle claimed she was born loving to scrub and talk.

Estelle picked up on the third ring.

“This is Jennifer Trevor.”

“Hello, Dr. Trevor.” I couldn’t get her to stop calling me doctor. Funny because she said the only doctors she knew took care of people’s bodies, and she couldn’t possibly imagine how anyone might help somebody by messing around in their thoughts. Estelle wouldn’t use my first name either, no matter how many times I insisted. I’d given up.

“Poor Mrs. Lawrence. I heard on the news. Everybody in town knows about the shooting.” Estelle’s voice faltered. “How’s she doing?”

“Her situation is very serious. She’s in critical condition at Union Memorial.”

Estelle gasped. “I’m still shaking from the second I saw her picture on TV. Did you know I was there the morning of the day she was shot?”

“I didn’t, but I certainly want to talk with you about that day, Estelle, and the days leading up to it. It’s important. I’ll pay for your time.”

“Paid to talk?” I could picture Estelle screwing up her face. “Talk’s free, Dr. Trevor.”

“Your time is valuable; I’ll be the judge of paying. How about noon today?” I assumed the police hadn’t interviewed her yet or she’d have told me; they might not even know she existed. I doubted Tucker would have thought to mention Estelle.

Her response was silence. I concluded she was pondering something. What was the issue here?

I tapped a pen on my desk, waiting for her answer.

Finally she spoke. “I suppose I could talk with you. Lunchtime works fine. Where do you want me to come?”

“We’ll meet at Lenora’s?”

“That works good. I’m planning to go same as usual twice a week to keep things up and water the plants, unless Mr. Lawrence orders me otherwise. She’d want her place kept nice.”

“That’s right.”

“Is this about the guy who done it? You know Mrs. Lawrence counseled men and women from the local prison. How could an ungrateful ex-convict do such a thing?”

I chose not to get into that now. “Do you have a key?”

“No bother about that. I’ve had one for two years now.”

“Fine. See you later.”

Now if only Estelle could reveal some clue to aid in identifying Lenora’s attacker.

CHAPTER SEVEN

A gigantic cocoon of drifting clouds covered the sky as I drove past acres of open farmland guarding the sense of country around Lake Geneva—partly why we moved here from Illinois ten years ago. I inhaled deeply. God’s beauty was still evident in the world even if a human beings tried to turn it insane. Did Lenora’s protégé repay her kindness with a bullet? It seemed equivalent to Mother Teresa being gunned down by an AIDS patient she’d cared for.

Nudged to pray, I asked for divine hands to somehow reform this tragedy. I whispered, “Lord, heal Lenora and keep Nick and the children safe as they go about their day.”

I pulled off the road and put the top down on our convertible. When I reached the top of the hill, Estelle’s red Ford truck sat in the driveway with the side door open. As I pulled near, she popped out and waved. Big-boned and vigorous, with the ruddy look of a farmwoman used to physical labor, she’d impressed me the day I hired her. Before I shut my car door, she began chattering. “Poor Mrs. Lawrence. I still can’t believe it.”

I put my arm on her shoulder. “I know. It will be good for us to talk.” We ambled toward the house. In the daylight, the residence seemed more comforting than last night. What’s not to like about a rustic country home with wings running in three directions flanked with English gardens?