One We Love, The (3 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

B
efore I went to
the shelter, I made two of the phone calls from my list. The first was to
Regina’s lawyer, Ashley Perkins. I had a hard time reconciling the cute, perky
name with my idea of a lawyer, but the no-nonsense voice fit. She spent seven
minutes on the phone with me and probably billed Regina’s estate for an hour.
But, then, therapists were among the first to invent the fifty-minute hour, so
I shouldn’t judge.

At any rate, she didn’t need any more time to confirm that
yes, I was stuck being the executor and it meant all the duties that I thought
it meant, and no, she had no idea why Regina felt the need to change the executorship
two weeks ago. However, she did let me know that the previous executor, Lachlyn
Brody, had held the spot for well over eight years. Listening to her strong,
assured voice, I couldn’t bring myself to ask her if she thought Regina’s death
might be something other than an accident. It seemed silly.         

The second call went straight to voice mail, a relief since
I had no better idea of what to say to Detective Blodgett than to anyone else. Unless
I came up with something more credible than Regina’s assumed non-knitting
habits, I’d sound like some conspiracy nut. The suspicions that tickled my
brain would sound crazy just as soon as I voiced them. Pondering that line of
reasoning, I looked up “paranoid schizophrenia” in my DSM-IV just in case I’d
fallen over the line already. It wasn’t reassuring.

The drive to the shelter went all too fast despite my
efforts to catch every red light. Instead, the fates sailed me through a long
procession of green lights and got me there in record time.

Devlin House, an immense, thrown-together duplex, sat at the
end of a block of sleek office buildings and looked as misplaced as a dandelion
in a rose bed. Despite being two stories, it appeared squat, slightly shabby,
and in serious need of a fresh paint job. Shingles, too, when I looked a little
closer.

I rested my head back on the car seat and sighed. Time for a
little pep talk. I was here in a professional capacity. I was here as the legal
representative of a . . .  Well, not a good friend, that was stretching it. But
still, a legal representative. A professional. Definitely not a victim.

It wasn’t working, but I pushed myself out of the car
anyway.

The door chimed as I entered the front door of the administrative
side of the duplex. Midday, the shelter was quiet, the resident women at jobs
or looking for them. Against my will, I glanced to the left, into the group
counseling room. A former living room, its walls were painted a light spring
green overlaid haphazardly with child-height scuff marks and small, white scars
where folding chairs had been pushed back carelessly, gouging half-moons into
the drywall. A wooden bookshelf filled with self-help, feel-good books,
feminist tomes, and an entire collection of Dr. Phil’s words of wisdom had been
placed against the back wall. Generic brand tissue boxes were placed on the
floor in between every third chair or so, and a yellow legal pad rested on one
of the chairs, waiting for the next line of notes to be filled in.

I took a deep breath, trying to relocate oxygen to the areas
of my body that needed it. A door shut behind me, and I twisted around. Not Clotilde,
the director, although this woman was just as tall and exuded the same sense of
efficiency. It took me a moment to recognize her.

“Hi, I’m Astrid. Welcome to Devlin House. You’re safe here.”
She smiled warmly and I felt myself smiling back.

“Thank you,” I said. “I’m Letty Whittaker. I’m here to see Clotilde.
. .” I fumbled, not remembering her last name. “I worked with Regina. At the
clinic.”

The smile left her eyes. “Oh, yes. Horrible, isn’t it? I
still get the shakes when I think about it. I thought your eulogy was very
nice.”

  We stood for a moment, awkwardly, before she gathered
herself to respond.

“Do you have an appointment? Clotilde has a lot on her
plate, what with this emergency and all. I don’t think she has a spare minute
today. Why don’t you give me your information and I’ll have her—”
          “Um, no,” I interrupted. “I suppose I should have called, but. . .” I
let that trail off, because of course I should have called. However, it
probably wouldn’t help to explain that I wanted to meet them face-to-face in
order to evaluate each as a potential murderer. That might be a communication
barrier, as we say.

Astrid maintained her welcoming expression, although I sensed
an exasperated huff building under the smile. I could understand her
irritation; among other things, she probably had two jobs—welcome visitors and
guard the boss’s time—and I was straining her efforts on both. Despite my
reluctance to give out too much information, I was going to have to provide a
more detailed explanation or run the risk of being shooed back to my car.

“Regina appointed me executor of her professional duties,” I
explained. “That includes the shelter as well as the clinic. I’m really sorry
to interrupt Clotilde, but I need to coordinate my efforts here and make
arrangements to settle Regina’s case load. Her lawyer can verify this if there
are any concerns.”

Astrid’s eyebrows shot up and her whole body stiffened. At
the very least, I’d managed to pierce the shell of efficiency. “I see,” she
said. “Well. Wait here. Clotilde is in the back.”

She spun on her heel, leaving me standing next to the entry
door while she went to alert her boss. I’d lost the advantage of breaking the
news myself, but it couldn’t be helped. As I stood in the dark entryway, I
heard a door at the back of the house open and click shut. Moments later, it
opened again and the sound of brisk footsteps brought the shelter’s director
into view. Astrid trotted just behind.

 
 
I’d met Clotilde once, briefly, during the time I’d
come here with Regina, and I saw a flicker of recognition in her light blue
eyes. Or maybe it was from my short eulogy at the funeral. Neither episode had
shown me at my best, but I pasted a professional smile on my face and stuck my
hand out anyway.

Her grasp was strong, almost painful, but she released my
hand the second before I would’ve been sure she was aiming for intimidation. I
was surprised to find her dressed very smartly. The soft grey suit wasn’t Bruno
Grizzo, but she hadn’t picked up the ensemble at Wally-world either.

“Why don’t we talk in my office?” she said, with a glance at
Astrid. A look passed between them, too quick to interpret. I followed Clotilde,
hurrying to keep up with her long strides, just as Astrid had. A row of offices
ran the length of the hall opposite the group counseling room so it was only a
distance of about forty feet, which was good because I hadn’t been keeping up
with my aerobics and I was already sweating from nerves.

Her office was as I expected. A small room, crowded with
papers and books, various newspaper photos showing Devlin House over the years
hanging in cheap frames on the walls. The furniture was hand-me-down
expensive—items that had been donated from wealthy benefactors and put to good
use. The only object in the room looking relatively new was the computer.

Clotilde motioned to a straight-backed, wooden chair placed
in front of the desk. I sat, feeling the chair wobble on uneven legs.
A
power play
.
Or just another ancient donation?
 

“Astrid tells me—” She broke off as the door opened. A third
Amazon entered, joining Clotilde behind the desk. She remained standing,
reminding me of a bodyguard or a dueler’s second. In contrast to Clotilde’s
smart business attire, she wore a baggy pantsuit in a pea green tone that did
nothing for her complexion. No makeup, of course. None of them wore any that I
could tell, making me feel like a harlot with my eyeliner and lip gloss.

Clotilde went on without introducing us. “Astrid tells me
that you are here representing Regina.” Her voice tilted at the end, making a
question out of the fact as though she couldn’t quite believe that Astrid had
communicated correctly.

“Her professional estate, yes,” I answered, pulling a copy
of Regina’s instructions out and laying them on the desk between us. “She named
me executor of her professional duties and listed very clearly what that would
entail. In addition to settling her client cases at the clinic where we worked
together, I’m to do the same here. I’m sure you’re well aware of Regina’s
organizational skills.” I smiled to show we were on the same team. They didn’t.

Clotilde nodded noncommittally throughout my little speech.
Her bodyguard, however, had no such compunction, frowning at the sheaf of
papers as though her eyes could ignite them. Following Clotilde’s lead, I kept
my face expressionless, a professional mask. She picked up the instructions and
began reading. She didn’t hurry, and I concentrated on sitting still,
projecting an air of confidence on loan from somewhere. Maybe I was channeling
Regina. When she finished, Clotilde cleared her throat, glancing up once,
enigmatically, at her sidekick.

“Everything seems to be in order,” she said. “However, we’ll
need to decide how to proceed. There are certain protocols that would need to
be followed. The shelter and our clients have very specific needs, and I’m sure
that Regina, of all people, would want us to protect them.”

“I understand,” I said, although I didn’t. “I don’t want to
disrupt your program any more than necessary, especially after all that’s
occurred. Of course, I’ll need access to Regina’s client list and files, and
I’ll need to meet with her clients. We’re arranging a grief support group at
the clinic; I’m sure we could expand it to include any client here who might
find it helpful.”

“It’s just that sort of thing that causes difficulties,” Clotilde
said. “We don’t want our residents to be out in public areas any more than
necessary. Their situations are often very volatile, and several are in active
hiding from abusive partners. We couldn’t expect them to travel across town to
another agency to receive services.”

I looked over my shoulder as if my gaze could penetrate the walls
of the empty shelter. Obviously, the women didn’t spend
all
their time
in hiding. I knew from my own participation here that most women continued
working or otherwise spent the day in the community, only returning at night to
the safety of the shelter. One woman in my group, despite all advice, used to
go back to her home to keep up with the housework and the laundry.

“That’s fine. I could set up a group here as well. No
problem.”

“I’ll need to confer with our board about access to the clients
and their files.” She met the bodyguard’s gaze.

“I don’t understand,” I said.

I left the statement hanging in the air. Clotilde and I had
an ever-so-polite stare down while I awaited her answer. She didn’t want to, I
knew. Maybe she was used to immediate compliance, but we both knew she had no
standing here. The document was legal.

Time for another bomb.

CHAPTER SIX

F
rom my large
purse, I pulled the files Regina had appropriated—a much nicer word than “stole”—
and laid them on the desk. Two pair of glinty eyes tracked my movements like
heat-seeking missiles. “I found these at the clinic. Why would Regina have
removed these from the shelter?”

A long silence descended. The air almost crackled with
tension as the two strained for an appearance of normality. Clotilde cleared
her throat.

“Obviously we can’t hazard a guess since we don’t know what
you have there.”  She drew the stack toward her. The bodyguard leaned in to
read over her shoulder.

“Excuse me? I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” I stood,
extending my hand across the desk. “My name’s Letty Whittaker. You are. . .?”

She hesitated, which I found interesting. “Lachlyn Brody.”

“I see. Then you must already be aware of Regina’s
intentions regarding her professional will. . . ”
Since you were her
executor until two weeks ago,
I didn’t say. Wanted to, but didn’t. Having opposition
to something I didn’t even want to do was causing a well-spring of petulance to
bubble up inside. I would have to watch that. “And I’m sure you’re
well
aware of the legal standing of the document.”

Nobody’s perfect.

“Thank you for returning the shelter’s property.”  Clotilde
reentered the fray. “I’m not sure why Regina had these in her possession.
Perhaps she was thinking of submitting a paper for review. At any rate, we
hadn’t discussed it. For now, however, you can leave your contact information
with Astrid. I’ll get back to you as soon as I discuss the situation with our
board members.”

Since I was still standing, there wasn’t much I could do,
but I wasn’t ready to slink off, either. “When can I expect your call?”

Irritation flashed across her face. It was probably unusual
for anyone to demand an answer from the director, and even more rare for her to
expose her emotions. It gave me a childish, zingy thrill. She glanced again at
Lachlyn for more silent communion. Maybe they were practicing to be telepaths.

“I should get back to you by the end of this week,” Clotilde
said.

At the same time, Lachlyn offered, “Maybe by Monday.”

I smiled pleasantly, choosing to respond to Clotilde.
“Friday, then.”

No surprise: Friday came and went with no call from Devlin
House. It gave me time to reflect on the meeting and, after the thrill of battle
passed, I wasn’t entirely pleased with my performance. Not pleased at all, in
fact. Despite the momentary rush of surviving a grown-up version of mean-girl
wars, I couldn’t see any advantage in alienating two persons who could make my
executor job difficult, thus extending the time and energy I’d have to invest
in order to complete it.

They say that an alcoholic’s maturity level gets stalled at
the time of life that she started drinking. Which means, despite a graduate
degree and a respected profession in the mental health field, I’ve been a
teenager passing as an adult for several years. I’m working on it.

Since I was already immersed in immaturity, my inclination
was to blame my response on the Amazons. That felt comfy. Clotilde and Lachlyn had
certainly put out strong bitchvibes, but my instinctive bitch-back wasn’t going
to help the situation, no matter how gratifying.

Plus, with Regina’s death and the strange circumstances
around it, I was just too emotional to fully trust my gut. Was there some
strange purpose behind the power-play going on at Devlin House, or was it
simply a battle of wills with two domineering women? Hard to tell.

The delay gave me time to make arrangements at the clinic for
the grief group. I also thought to include any of our coworkers who might
benefit from attending, but no one took me up on it. Not surprising and nothing
to do with how anyone felt about Regina, I imagined. We therapists are just
more comfortable being the helpers than the helped.

The clinic reopened on Thursday morning, so many of my
coworkers claimed to be too busy for the group that evening. My friend Hannah
agreed to cocounsel, though, and that was nice. Hannah is a health-conscious,
earth-mother type who was thoughtful enough to bring snacks and tea, which
hadn’t occurred to me. If it had, I would probably have brought something laden
with chocolate. Instead, Hannah chose to bring in her “special” muffins made,
she informed us, with natural molasses and acorns she’d picked up from the
ground herself. They required a lot of chewing and were gluten-free.    

Clotilde didn’t call until Tuesday. At 6:00 a.m. A time she
could be certain she wouldn’t find me in the office. Her message said that the
board had given temporary approval (whatever that was) for me to review
Regina’s current client list only. I interpreted this to mean I was sort of
okayed to do not much. I wouldn’t have access to Regina’s closed files unless
the full board met, reviewed the will, and gave official approval. They were
seeking advice from their lawyer, too. Lastly, they required a shelter employee
be present to “supervise” my involvement. Apparently, they were insisting on a
reviewer for my reviewing. The whole thing reminded me of the Bee-Watcher
Watcher in a Dr. Seuss book my mother used to read me. But it didn’t make me feel
lucky.

Lachlyn was my assigned bee-watcher watcher.