Bullet in the Night (6 page)

“Lenora cared about these clients. She’d help me if our positions were switched.”

“Right.” Ellen huffed and turned to leave.

“If I don’t have daytime hours free, add a Tuesday or Thursday night. One more thing, have I told you lately how much I appreciate you?”

Her mouth dissolved into a grin.

When she left to make the calls, I experienced a sense of peace.
Finally I was performing actions on Lenora’s behalf.

Next, I studied Lenora’s appointment book and recorded the names listed the past three months, which I considered the most crucial time period. If Lenora’s shooting had been a passionate crime of vengeance, a deranged person usually couldn’t control the fury to act out by waiting for very long.

The initials R. M. filled the four o’clock calendar time slot the day Lenora had been shot. I didn’t have any idea who R. M. was. The name T. Hartford was written without a time, just a notation between ten and noon. Perhaps Tucker would know to whom the initials referred. I wasn’t about to rule anyone out as a suspect.

I tried to locate a Hartford with the first initial T online. No luck. I stood, stretched, and walked into my break room, actually a remodeled closet with a small refrigerator and microwave above the one and only cabinet that stood next to a small round table with two chairs. The cabinet held three ceramic coffee mugs, boxes of tea, herbal and regular orange pekoe and black, and coffee.

I reached into my canvas bag for a banana, one of the mainstays of my diet. The golf course scene printed on the bag transported me mentally to pleasant thick green fairways. Not that I was a serious player—I saw the rough more often. I tossed the peel and wiped my fingers on a Kleenex.

Sessions with Lenora’s clients along with mine, plus visiting Kirk, would add considerable stress to my life. It couldn’t be helped. Where the Lord led, He equipped. How I needed those reminders.

Twenty minutes later, Ellen was back at my desk reporting on her calls. “Sandy Reckland will use her lunch hour today to fill your one o’clock cancellation. She has no objection to having you review her file after her appointment and will sign the release. Nor does Carrie Malone. She’s coming in Monday morning. Esther Forbes won’t be needing more counseling. She’s fine; a flap over a family inheritance is cleared up.” Ellen put the names and numbers on my desk.

“Great.”

“And get this. The two gals who are coming to see you had counseling sessions on the day Lenora was shot.”

“I know, thanks.”

I ambled out to the reception area where I kept the cart with carafes of hot water and coffee for my clients and filled a mug with water from the pot on the warming unit. Ripping open the wrap on a tea bag, I swished brown streaks through the steaming water, the extent of my creativity for the day unless I counted the wild thoughts swirling in my brain as creative.

Two clients were followed by a quick lunch of half a cold turkey sandwich, and one o’clock chimed.

I strolled into the reception area to welcome Lenora’s counselee, Sandy. I reached out my hand to the tall woman with a Starbucks cup of comfort in her grasp. “Hello, I’m Dr. Trevor. Please come in.”

Sandy Reckland clomped through my office door on leather boots with two-inch heels. Her black turtleneck under a fringed leather jacket hardly seemed spring fashion. She tossed her long, brown tresses with quick, jerky movements like a quarter horse. Her tortoise shell and sequined necklace sparkled as she pressed a strong hand into mine.

“I’m glad I could get in right away. It’s shocking about Lenora.”

“A terrible tragedy.” I led her to the Queen Anne chairs. “Please make yourself comfortable.”

She dropped onto the chair cushion farthest from mine and flashed a mouthful of bright tooth enamel as she asked for more details about Lenora’s condition.

I shared the little I knew, then picked up the manila folder from the coffee table containing her intake and a blank form for my initial assessment. I noted Sandy had left employment info blank.

“What kind of work do you do?”

“MIS.”

“Refresh my memory. The acronym means?”

“Management Information Systems. I like a position of power. Computers are always the control center.” She grinned and rubbed the back of her neck. “I suppose I should let you know control is one of my issues, according to Lenora. My last session with her wasn’t exactly helpful. In fact, we ended early. I was seriously considering not returning.”

“Why?”

“Let’s just say I didn’t like her recommendations.”

“Yet you came today? Would you like to tell me the specifics about the issues you and Lenora had been working on?”

Sandy wet her finger and dabbed at a speck on her leather jeans. “Three years ago my husband and I divorced. I didn’t have counseling at the time. I went to Lenora a few months back because I was still dealing with that pain.”

“It’s good you sought help. Ending a marriage can create a sense of loss whatever the initial cause of breakup.”

She snapped back in a steely tone and listed a litany of dissatisfactions with her former husband. “I should have known better than to marry him. I’m still dealing with emotional fallout. It’s actually also my parents’ fault.”

Talkative enough at least. “How so?”

“The marital relationship between my mom and dad was horrid. You’ve heard of mental cruelty? The two tortured each other for thirty years. Dad never allowed my mom to have a single thought he didn’t agree with. She paid him back with constant criticism and passive resistance to anything he wanted to do, whether it was where to vacation or when to have the carpets cleaned. When I met my ex-husband, Phil, I thought our relationship could be different. He proved me wrong.”

“Your earlier counseling sessions with Lenora were helpful?”

She nodded. “But our last session she said some wrong-thinking on my part may have caused the marriage to break-up. Even though my husband turned out to be a jerk, Lenora said the way I interacted with him further damaged the relationship. I didn’t take that well. She had no basis to say I needed to make some changes.” Sandy snickered.

How immature Sandy was.
Of course Lenora did. She was trying to help you.
I took a sip of peppermint tea to soothe my irritation. “In counseling we work to help men and women respect each other and relate healthfully. Sometimes that requires saying some hard things.”

“Therapy’s a lot of crock in my opinion. I could give you a mouthful.”

“Why would you say that?” For someone who supposedly didn’t like counseling, this gal was in no hurry to stop talking. “What specifically was Lenora suggesting you change?”

“My dislike of men, not just my ex-husband. She inferred I have conflict issues with males at work, too.” Sandy’s face reddened. “Even implied there might be a pattern, a problem in my attitude and behavior from my childhood experiences. That’s what steamed me. Afterwards I had to admit she was at least half-right.”

I suppressed a smile. I’d witnessed Lenora’s style; she could be direct but kind. If she’d identified Sandy as having difficulty with male relationships, I’d surmise it to be true. “So she ultimately helped?”

“I wouldn’t go that far, but she was helping me know myself better. Even though I walked out last time, I’d decided to go back.” She looked up, eyes wide to see my reaction. “That’s why I’m here now.”

People who enjoyed being contrary liked to see the shock they created.

“Good, then we can continue.” I met her eyes coolly. Did I really want to work with this woman? She could be a resistant client. Nobody could help someone who didn’t want to change. “Now that you’ve had a chance to meet me, do you wish to continue with counseling?”

“I’ll try a few sessions. Why not?” She shrugged. “My company pays.”

I made a note of her willingness and put down my pen. “I have a few questions I’d like to ask you about the day of Lenora’s shooting before you leave today.”

“Sure.” Sandy fidgeted with her hands. “It stresses me thinking Lenora might die when I was just with her the day she was shot.”

“Did you observe anything strange while at Lenora’s, like phone calls that upset her, anything out of the ordinary, something she said?”

“Not really.”

“Did you sense she was worried or scared about anything?”

“Nothing I noticed.” Sandy’s face had lost its indifferent attitude.

I tried to make my next question sound casual. “Out of curiosity, where were you that evening when Lenora was shot? The police are asking everybody who’d seen her within twenty-four hours of the shooting as a formality,” I added quickly to soften the stark question.

Didn’t work. She bristled. “In Illinois, on business.” Her eyes turned cold. “I travel a lot. That evening I went to a movie and was in my motel by ten. If the police want to know, they can ask me personally.”

A nice and neat alibi? How distorted was her thinking? I leaned forward, about to probe further, when Sandy stood up. “I need to get back. How do we set the next session up?”

“Make an appointment with Ellen on your way out.” I’d have offered my handshake, but she’d already reached the door.

When she left, I took a deep breath. I wasn’t sure what to make of this successful but unhappy woman who went out of her way to be disliked. Could I service her without getting annoyed? Of course. My framed professional licenses on the wall behind me signified I could squelch negative feelings. Yes, I’m well trained, but she’d be tough. I wished frustration toward a client never cropped up but sometimes it did. I wanted their lives to be the best possible, but some were stubborn about changing unproductive behaviors. Christ’s command to love reminded me to avoid judging.

I wrote on Sandy’s client intake sheet.
Client expressed but didn’t emote concern about Lenora’s plight. Outwardly hard, appears to guard a fragile shell.

Had she transferred anger at her parents and the world into a motive for killing Lenora? Had she come in today as a cover-up? Did Lenora’s confrontational method lead to deep anger? Did Sandy have a fetish for killing? For that matter, was it safe for me to be around her?

A distinct chill rolled over me. I crossed the room to the opposite wall and twisted the control to turn down the air conditioning.

CHAPTER NINE

At three, I left my office for my appointment with Kirk at his all-expenses-paid residence, the Walworth County jail. The massive complex built with rectangular chunks of stone in two shades of tan spread over several acres. It might have blended into the landscape as a typical business building except for the sign, Law Enforcement Center, and parked sheriff’s department cars in the front spaces of the lot.

I shuddered. The idea of a structure constructed to cage human beings deemed too dangerous for the public welfare repulsed me. This would be my first and hopefully last visit.

After I parked, I pulled the hand-sized pepper spray from my handbag after several minutes searching. So much for being prepared to use this easily accessible crime deterrent in an emergency. I dug the silver metal nail file out from beneath my blush then rifled past two lipstick tubes and Chapstick to find my peppermints. I popped a mint into my mouth to soothe my queasy stomach. Best to leave the spray and nail file in the driver’s seat of my car. No way would I carry anything inside remotely resembling a weapon. On second thought, I left my purse in the car.

My stomach growled, reminding me my lunch had been light. I envisioned the fast food salad I’d grab when I left.

I charged toward the front door to overcome my reluctance to enter the building, carrying only a small notepad, pen, and car keys, and strolled in bravely. Murphy’s Oil and sweat filled my nostrils—same as our local high school during Tara and Collin’s basketball games.

A droopy-eyed female receptionist with puffy cheeks and a thin neck sat at a desk in a glass enclosure inside the spacious foyer. At least forty thin black braids coiled perfectly around her head. I waited as she methodically checked the identification of the gentleman ahead of me—I surmised a lawyer. The navy suit moved off briskly and disappeared.

I stepped up to the window, aware of the fluttering in my stomach. She responded to my hello with a noncommittal grunt as I handed over the letter of authorization allowing me to visit Kirk.

“ID?” An expressionless request, no small talk wasted here.

I pulled out my driver’s license with my picture ID and quipped, “Bad hair day.”

The woman ignored my remark and glanced wordlessly back and forth from the license to me as if the picture might change. Finally her head jerked left toward chairs in the waiting area. I assumed that was permission to sit down. I tried to smile as I said thank you, but it was hard through shaky lips.

Fifteen minutes passed before a handcuffed man in a green cotton uniform appeared with a guard and was led to one of four glass-enclosed visitor’s cubicles at the far end of the room.

I was summoned and gestured to sit on the other side. I recognized Kirk’s face from his pictures and mentally reviewed his statistics from the file—weight 185, height 5’11. His huge muscular arms reminded me of machinery except with elbow gears. Fuzzy growth covered his arms and decorated his chest in thick curls escaping the top of his open shirt. His head seemed glued on top of his shoulders, like a child’s drawing of a stick man.

He sat down warily. Why wouldn’t he? After all, we were separated by vast degrees of freedom and lifestyle.

Kirk stared past me then down as his gaze locked on my notepad.

“Hi. My name’s Jennifer Trevor. I’m a friend of Lenora’s.”

At the mention of Lenora, color flushed over his face as his eyes bored into me. “How is she?”

I repeated the latest medical info. “You stopped her bleeding and probably saved her life.”

“Yeah, well, everyone thinks I wanted to kill her. The authorities are never going to believe I’m innocent.”

Movement in the cubicle next to us attracted my attention. No sound came through the glass, but a quick look at the prisoner’s red face and waving arms proved it wasn’t a pleasant conversation. I glanced over. Two black eyes met mine, axe blades of anger sharp enough to chop wood. Sweat formed on my brow. I swiped it away. I didn’t consider myself a skilled lip reader but figured out his words.
I never had a chance.
He mouthed it over and over to his visitor, the man in the navy blue suit.