Mortal Crimes: 7 Novels of Suspense (113 page)

“I see.”

“Can you see her?”

On hiatus from private practice, writing a book on the battered woman syndrome, he had initially consented to see Dr. Newton’s patient because of her involvement with the center, although they’d never gotten around to discussing their mutual interest.

“I’ll be happy to. Have her call my receptionist at the office and set up an appointment.”

“I’m afraid that could be a problem. I rather doubt Roberta will consent to see you on a doctor-patient basis. You see, she doesn’t have a very high opinion of psychiatrists.”

“In that case, I don’t see how I can help her.”

“As I said earlier, she seems to like you, Doctor. Perhaps you can see her in a nonmedical setting. Socially, so to speak. Naturally, the matter of your fee will be taken care of by me.”

“Mrs. Paxton, I can’t—”

“She claims to have witnessed a killing in the woods moments after her accident.”

“A killing?”

“A woman. She swears she saw a barefooted woman running around in the woods. A man was after her… killed her. It was all so wild. But to hear Roberta talk, you’d almost have to believe her. She was so descriptive. The woman—the one murdered—was wearing a long white dress and, supposedly, an anklet.”

“An anklet?” Jake’s heart skipped a beat. “You mean an ankle bracelet?”

“Yes, I guess. But none of that matters because she didn’t really see anything like that. I’m sure she imagined all of it. The blow on the head, the—Dr. Reynolds, she needs help.”

“Mrs. Paxton, I…”

“Think about it, won’t you, Doctor?” And then she was gone.

The jay screeched again. Deep in thought, Jake was oblivious of the racket. How many women wore an ankle bracelet? Jake had known only one.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

At Radcliff's deli, Robbi moved gingerly in the long line, absently staring at the assortment of food through the window of the cold case.

“Miss Paxton?”

She turned, and directly behind her stood a smiling, clean-cut man. He wore blue slacks, a yellow shirt open at the collar, and a grayish blue sport coat. She smelled the same mild aftershave he’d worn at the hospital. The handsome psychiatrist with the nice knees.

“Dr. Reynolds, hello.”

“Good to see you up and about.”

“Thanks. Ankle’s still a little tender…” She raised the cane. “But I’m not complaining.”

“Back to work already?”

She nodded. “Takes my mind off—”she coughed, looked away, “off the aches and pains. Hope you’re not in a hurry.” She indicated the slow-moving line. “They’re always shorthanded here.”

“I’m not in a hurry. I try to make any waiting time productive time.”

“Oh, how so?”

“I watch people. I write speeches…” He shrugged. “I talk to pretty ladies in front of me.”

Robbi smiled, moved forward. How pretty could she look? She was too pale from the weeks in the hospital. She hadn’t slept well in ages, and the July heat soon drained what little energy she had each day. Today she was wearing her favorite skirt and blouse, but both were wrinkled, damp in places. And her hair, pulled up in back, was rapidly coming loose, strand by crimpy stand. The doctor, however, looked cool and crisp. Air-conditioned office—oh, to have such luxury
.

“More important, I was raised with four sisters. In my case patience became mandatory for sanity and survival,” he said. “So how’s everything with you? No more headaches?”

“No,” she said too quickly.

“How about the nightmares?”

“All gone.” She awkwardly stepped forward, bumped the man in front of her.

An attractive woman Roberta’s age stopped to talk with the doctor. Robbi turned forward, focused on the food in the cold case. She could hear the conversation between the two, something about a dinner honoring a best-selling author, a regatta at the lake, and a score of names frequently heard in the local media—the state’s movers and shakers.

Robbi felt the doctor’s gaze on her as she inched along, trying her damnedest not to eavesdrop on their conversation but losing the battle. A party invitation was extended to him. She surmised the doctor was unmarried.

When her turn at the counter came, she paid for her order, gathered a bag in each arm, turned to the doctor and, without interrupting the woman who had been talking nonstop, smiled, then mouthed the word “bye.”

She had gotten only a few steps outside the deli when Dr. Reynolds caught up with her.

“You look like you could use some help,” he said, relieving her of the larger bag. “Can I give you a ride back to work?”

“As much as I’d love to get off my feet and out of this heat, I’m supposed to be getting some exercise. It’s just a few doors down.”

“Then I’ll walk with you.”

She noticed he was empty-handed. “No lunch?”

“Nothing appealed to me.”

She held the small bag in her left hand and the cane in her right as they walked north to the main office of SSWC.

“Do you ever eat lunch out?” he asked.

“Rarely. We take turns going for sandwiches.”

“You’re quite involved with your work, aren’t you?”

“I guess.”

“Were you always this enthusiastic? Or has it increased since the accident?”

“Are you asking if I’ve suddenly become immersed in my job to take my mind off something else?” she said warily.

“No, I’m not. But have you?”

She stopped in front of the brick building and reached for the bag in his hand. “Thanks for the help. I have to go. They’re waiting.”

“I’ll take it in.”

“No, that’s all right. I can manage from here.”

“You don’t care much for psychiatrists, do you, Miss Paxton?”

“Before his stroke, my father was a practicing psychiatrist.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve read several of his papers. Dr. Paxton’s a brilliant man, but that doesn’t answer my question.”

“It would be unfair of me to judge an entire profession by one man,” she said evenly, conscious of her evasiveness but unable to stop herself.

“It would.”

She reached for the doorknob.

“Miss Paxton, I’m researching a book on battered women. I wonder if you could give me a hand. You’d be doing me a tremendous favor, and perhaps I can help you in turn.”

Robbi looked at him, distrustful. “Help me? What makes you think I need help?”

“I meant with the center. Donations, time, anything I can do.”

“I don’t know. I—”

“Tomorrow I’ll be at my place at Tahoe. Come up for the day. It’ll give you a chance to relax, take in some sun and mountain air. I really think you’ll enjoy it.”

Could she work with him, trust him? Dr. Reynolds was like no psychiatrist she’d ever met. If he was working on a book about domestic abuse, they certainly had something in common.

“All right. I’ll come.”

“Great,” he said, a smile brightening his face. He backed up. “I’ll call and give you directions.”

The rest of the day her work took a backseat to thoughts of the doctor. Who was he? What kind of man was he? Images of his smile, so captivating, played across her mind.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Roberta cruised the narrow street slowly, taking in the quiet solitude of the evergreen-shaded lane. The sharp scent of ponderosa pine reached inside the closed car as cones and needles crunched under the tires of her Jeep Cherokee. Straight ahead, like a mirror reflecting the clear blue of the sky, lay the deep, icy waters of Lake Tahoe.

On the phone that morning Dr. Reynolds had given her directions to his summer place at Incline Village. His lake-front house was to the left, within yards of the sandy beach of Crystal Bay. A neighborhood dock moored several powerboats and a sailboat. In the driveway sat a classic white T-bird.

She found the doctor on a large wooden deck that faced the lake. At a picnic table covered with books and papers, held down by fist-size rocks, he sat barefooted behind a manual typewriter, wearing a navy blue tank shirt and white tennis shorts. A stack of papers balanced in his lap.

She climbed the steps to the deck.

“Hi,” he said, smiling as she crossed to him. “Thanks for agreeing to drive up.”

“It’s certainly no hardship.” Her gaze swept the landscape appreciatively.

He dumped the papers onto the table, rose to his full six feet, and stretched.

He had the body of an athlete. Solid, though not too muscular. Good, strong legs, looking even more tan in contrast to the white shorts. A tennis physique, she thought. Waterskiing for certain, since he lived right on the lake.

At a smaller table with a striped umbrella he pulled out a lime green director chair for her.

“Relax,” Jake said when she sat. “Take half a dozen deep breaths while I play host.” He went inside.

Robbi took his advice and filled her lungs with the clean mountain air. She looked around at the assortment of evergreen trees surrounding the house. In the yard, clusters of wildflowers in purple, red, and blue complemented the greens. He returned minutes later with a tray bearing two mugs of coffee, a plate of sliced pound cake, bowls of whole strawberries, brown sugar, and thinned sour cream.

“Goodness,” she said.

“I want this to be as painless as possible,” he said, putting down the tray and sitting opposite Robbi.

“You’re doing all the right things.” Robbi sipped the coffee, pleased by its rich, nutty flavor.

For several minutes while they drank coffee and ate, they engaged in small talk about the area. Mesmerized, Roberta watched a bright parasail, its two riders soaring high over the water behind the speedboat that towed it.

Jake refilled their cups.

“I’m into the chapter on the battered woman’s syndrome as a legal defense,” Jake explained. “I’ve plenty of the dry material, statistics, trials, and such. I could use some insight, personal and general, and an anecdote or two.”

For the next hour, without using names, Roberta related one case history after another. When nothing more came to mind, they took a break. Jake brought out fresh coffee.

He leaned back in his chair. “The nightmares you spoke of in the hospital, tell me about them.”

Her guard went up. She had agreed to help him with his research, and now he was asking about the nightmares again.

With her thumb she rubbed away the light lipstick mark on the rim of the coffee mug. “Dr. Reynolds—”

“None of that ‘doctor’ stuff. Please, it’s Jake.”

Despite the picturesque surroundings, his casual attire, and his attempts to make her feel like a guest, she had the discerning feeling that this little tête-à-tête was between a doctor and his patient. All the directors at the center were trained as counselors. She was no stranger to the techniques of therapy. He observed her without being obvious. He listened carefully to what she said, the underlying nuances in particular. He didn’t miss a beat.

“The nightmares are still with you, aren’t they?”

“I can’t afford you, Doctor.”

“This is between friends.”

She stared silently off into the distance. Should she tell him? Why was he so eager to get inside her head? Occupational involvement, perhaps. Could an artist take in a spectacular landscape without a desire to capture it on canvas? Before him sat a woman whose mind was filled with mysteries—unexplored.