One We Love, The (7 page)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

 _

T
hursday isn’t my
usual night for a meeting, but I was too stressed to stay at home. After
feeding Siggy, I took off for the HP & Me club downtown. I’d only been
sober ten months, but the dilapidated old building already felt like home.
Various greetings ranging from warm welcomes to raunchy catcalls greeted me as
I pushed through the door and looked around for my friends. Sue, my sponsor,
and a few other women from my Wednesday night group stood next to the coffee
counter. As I approached I remembered the photo in the shelter newsletter that
had seemed so familiar. In addition to being a mainstay at the club, Sue was a
retired teacher and knew an amazing amount of people and their families. It
didn’t hurt that she’d lived in Chippewa Falls all her life and was related to
half the county. When I showed her the newsprint, she recognized the auburn-haired
woman right away.

“That’s Beth C.”

The initialed last name told me that Beth was a fellow AA member.
“Why don’t I know her?”

“She goes to the Sunday morning group. She’s been sober for
maybe five years? Six? She only comes once a week, but she’s still very regular.
She’s good people.”

That was a solid endorsement from Sue. She didn’t like most
people. Sometimes I wasn’t even sure if she liked me.

“Why are you asking about her?” she asked.

“She’s on the board at the shelter where Regina used to
work. They’re having a board meeting on Saturday, and I’d really like to talk
to her before then. If you think she would be, um, sympathetic.”

“Like I said, she’s good people. But it would depend on
exactly what you’re asking her to do. I’ll give her a call and pave the way for
you. You’re on your own after that.”

“Good enough,” I said.

“It better be. Now, unless you want to talk about your Third
Step, you better hustle your bony butt into the meeting.”

 I hustled.

Grabbing a chair between Stacie, a young friend who’d gotten
sober the same day as me, and Trinnie, a newbie, I plunked myself down at the
banquet table. Trinnie looked liked she’d lost weight; something she could ill
afford. She had a murky cigarette smell that, despite the staleness, was
captivating to me. Addictions are a bitch.

Unaware of my vicarious inhalations, Trinnie leaned forward.
“Letty, I need to ask you something.”

“What’s up?”

“Would you be my sponsor?”

“
Me?
I can’t. I haven’t gotten through the steps yet
myself.” An understatement.

“Just temporary then. Until I find someone I can work with,”
she said.

“How come you don’t have one yet?”

“I haven’t been able to decide who I like best. But I really
need to get started. I had kind of a rough weekend.”

“Did you drink?” I asked. Sounded like a sponsor already.

“No, but it was close. I need to get phone numbers, too.”

“I guess I could be a temporary sponsor, but you really need
to find someone with more time.
Soon
. And you need to talk about your
weekend when it’s your turn tonight.”

Stacie and I passed her our phone numbers, then hushed. The
meeting was starting.

I didn’t know if I’d done the right thing, but I guessed as
a sponsor I was better than nothing. Not by much, but still. Especially not
with the way I’d been avoiding working on my own program.

I liked Trinnie. She reminded me a lot of my younger sister,
Kris.

I mentally shook myself and turned to focus on the speaker.
Daydreaming through a meeting wouldn’t exactly be setting a good example.

L
ater that night,
I laid on my couch waiting for the local news. Siggy was curled in a warm, vibrating
mass on my chest. I blew softly on his ear, making it twitch. He stretched,
then re-positioned, tucking his face under my chin. Although he looked like a
rich dessert, cream-colored with cocoa-tipped points on three paws and the tip
of his tail, it was the chocolate smudge under his nose and chin that made me
name him in honor of psychology’s father, Sigmund Freud. His purrs rose and
fell with his breathing, a sound I call “sleep buzzing.”

The phone rang, startling me and upsetting us both. Sig
hopped down, tossing a reproachful look over his shoulder and stalking into the
kitchen for a nighttime snack.

“Hello?” My voice sounded wary even to my own ears. The only
persons I knew who would call this late were family. Hence, the wariness.

Detective Blodgett’s gravelly smoker’s rasp boomed through
the tiny phone speaker as though he’d never accepted the phone’s ability to
project his voice. I snatched the phone away from my ear, frantically jabbing
the volume button. Even with the phone six inches from my ear, I could still
hear him.

“Don’t you ever call back?” he asked. “I was just getting
ready to put out a BOLO on you.”

“Nobody needs to ‘be on the lookout’ for me, but thanks for
worrying. Besides, I called you.”

“I wasn’t worried, and I texted you back.”

“You
texted
me?”

“My grandkid taught me. I’m hip.”

I thought about Blodgett’s stretchy, hound dog face and
baggy, mismatched suits, and squelched a giggle.

“What kinda trouble are you getting yourself into now?”

Not worried. Right. Despite suspecting me in my boyfriend’s
murder, Blodgett was one of my mainstays following my attack.
After
he’d
decided I hadn’t killed anyone. But he’d stayed involved in my life and I had
the feeling that wasn’t a typical reaction for him. I’d grown close with his
wife, Diana, a sweet forbearing woman who was awaiting Blodgett’s retirement
with eager plans. She’d put her years in raising children—their own four as
well as an assortment of foster kids—and she was ready for some serious cross-country
visiting. An elaborate motor home stood parked in the side yard ready to go, a
travel itinerary all laid out. Diana claimed the only thing she had left to
pack was her recipe box. She planned to cook each person’s favorite treat as
soon as Blodgett slammed the gear shift to D. Secretly, I pretended to be one
of her adopted daughters.

“It’s going to sound stupid,” I said to Blodgett.

His sigh rattled in my ear. “I’m a detective. I’m used to
stupid. Lay it on me.”

So I did. He already knew about Regina’s death. In fact,
he’d been to the wake. I assumed he knew the manner of her death, but I went
over it anyway, mentioning the strange fall, the knitting needle. Then I filled
him in on Regina’s recent appointment of me as her professional executor. He
grunted at that, but didn’t interrupt, which I took as cop-speak for “I’m
listening; please go on.” Either that or he was sitting on the john.

“And then,” I continued, “I found this stack of client files
that Regina took from the shelter. She wasn’t supposed to do that.”

“Maybe she was just going to work at home.”

“They weren’t all her clients. In fact, they weren’t even
recent cases. Plus, taking the files from the site is a breach of
confidentiality. In many agencies, that would be a firing offense. You just
don’t do it. Regina would have been well aware of that. She didn’t have
permission either, because Clotilde, the director, was pretty steamed when I
gave them back.”

There was a pause, then, “You gave them back?”

“Of course I did,” I said, virtuousness dripping from my
lips.

Another pause. “I’ll want to see the copies. What else?”

I didn’t bother asking how he knew I’d made copies. He was a
detective, after all.

“There was a woman at the shelter the night Regina died. She
took off the next morning, which isn’t really surprising, I suppose, if she’s
afraid of getting involved. But I was supposed to have access to all of
Regina’s clients and they kept her off the client roster. I found out about her
inadvertently.”

“So, you’ve got an accidental death and a bunch of misfiled
files?”

“Well, no.”

He waited.

“I’ve got a creepy feeling too.”

“Uh-huh. An accidental death, misfiled files, and you’re creepy.”

“A creepy
feeling
. Look, if you don’t want—”

“Get me copies of the copies. I’ll look into it.” He hung
up.

Why did I love rude people so much?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I
’d hoped
Blodgett would share info from the autopsy or give me a hint as to what the
cops were thinking. Wrong. Information only traveled one way with Blodgett. I
snuggled down under my comforter getting ready to do my own sleep buzzing when
a new thought crept into the fuzzy edges of my mind.

Blodgett sent me a text?

I tried to ignore it. Siggy had settled into the hollow at
the back of my knees, providing kitty-heating-pad warmth. I didn’t want to bug
him again. Feline attitude can be scary.

But a text message from Blodgett would have definitely
caught my attention. If it had gotten through, I should be hearing the beepy
alert telling me I’d missed a call.

I pulled the covers up to my chin, burrowing deeper into the
cozy softness. Obviously Blodgett’s grandson hadn’t done a good job of
instructing him. Not surprising. Blodgett, despite his self-delusions, was not
on the cutting edge of communication technology. He kept up with just enough to
understand how things might impact his job, but I’d never seen any evidence
that he used any of the myriad of technologies available in his daily life.

Besides, I would have heard the damn alert.

I gave up, trudged into the kitchen where my phone was
charging, and stared blurrily at the home screen. Even in my groggy state I
could see that there were no little icons for missed texts or messages. I
clicked over to the MISSED CALLS screen and there it was.

DET BLODGETT

He’d called at 10:04 this morning. I clicked over to the
messages screen and found—nothing. Which didn’t make sense. Blodgett’s text had
obviously come through. I checked the volume in case I’d forgotten to adjust it
after my last therapy session. Except I hadn’t had therapy with anyone today,
and I knew the phone worked because I’d gotten several calls on it.

Maybe Blodgett had called but hadn’t properly sent the
message? Was that even possible? 

And yet . . .

Where had my phone been when Blodgett had called?

Or better question: where had
I
been? If it rang
while I was with Clotilde, I wouldn’t have heard it. I would, however, have since
heard the beep indicating I had voice mail or missed a call. I hadn’t heard
that.

My usual habit was to leave my cell on the desk next to me
while I worked. If it’s out on my desk I was more likely to remember to turn it
to vibrate before meetings. There is nothing as embarrassing as a cell phone ringing
in the middle of a therapy session. But if I had followed my usual habit—and I
thought I had—it would have been sitting on the desk . . . including the time I
met with Clotilde. On the desk in the therapy office where Lachlyn waited for
me all by her lonesome, growing more and more irritated.

Where, in fact, Lachlyn could have seen that my buddy, Det.
Blodgett, was returning my phone calls. She must have wondered why I had a
police detective in my phone directory. Had she deleted the message?

So much for sleep.

F
riday was a
struggle. I managed, barely, to stay focused on the back-to-back clients I had
scheduled that morning. On the positive side, being so busy kept my mind from
anxiously swirling out of control. Not only had the doubts raised last night
kept me awake, but Siggy had picked up on my tension and refused to sleep with
me. I’d have to learn better stress management techniques or I’d lose my
snuggle buddy.

     Eventually the time for my appointment with Emma rolled
around. On the way over to Regina’s house, I stopped at Blodgett’s house and
left copies of the files. Neither he nor Diana were home, but he left the
screened-in porch unlocked and he’d told me to leave them on top of the freezer
chest.

I’d never been to Regina’s and didn’t know what to expect. I
had always pictured her living in a sleek, ultra-modern condo with stainless
steel fixtures and having somebody else to do the maintenance.

Instead, I discovered that she lived in a restored Craftsman
style bungalow in a quiet, well-tended neighborhood. Emma waited on the covered
porch, a soft, pumpkin-colored sweater draped over one arm in concession to the
early autumn air.

As I climbed the steps, she smiled. “Thank you for coming over.
I don’t know how I would have felt doing this by myself.”

I wasn’t altogether sure what she meant by “this” but
assumed it had to do with entering Regina’s home by herself. I answered with a
simple “no problem,” and we fell silent.

Emma unlocked the front door and entered first. The house
was filled with a silence so foreboding, it had texture. Yet somewhere close
by, a clock ticked. The furnace hummed to life. We stood in the entryway as
though expecting someone—
Regina?
—to  call out a welcome. The door
clicked shut behind us.

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” Emma asked.

 “Her scheduling calendar. An appointment book or something
on her computer. I couldn’t find anything at the clinic or the shelter, either.
It’s probably stupid, but it just seems strange that I haven’t found it. I want
to see if she has any work files, too.” I didn’t mention that it would have been
unethical if she had brought the files home, but it had occurred to me that I
might find more misappropriated files here. Who knows? Perhaps the normally
principled Regina had made a habit of carrying files around. People are strange.

I also didn’t mention my concern that we might not be the
first to sort through Regina’s belongings. My fears weren’t evidence.

“You’ll probably want to start in her office,” Emma said. “It’s
at the top of the stairs on the right. If you come across any personal
papers—insurance, bills, and so forth—I’d appreciate if you’d set them aside. I
need to go through all of that. In the meantime, I’m going to start in the
kitchen cleaning out the fridge. I hope it’s not too smelly.”

I left Emma to deal with the spoiled food and made my way up
the stairs. Regina’s home office had the same eclectic feel as her clinic
office, which made me wonder again at the stark bareness of her space at the
shelter. Here, Regina had created a serene palette out of cool blue tones and
white accents. It felt like the inside of a breeze.

Built-in shelves stuffed to overflowing with books lined two
walls. Regina’s desk, a golden teak monstrosity, took up a good third of the
room. The top of the desk was orderly, but not compulsively so. If someone had
searched it before me, there were no obvious signs. A laptop sat in the center.

Hallelujah.

I opened and let it power up. Unfortunately, that was as far
as I got. Why would Regina password protect her own computer, especially since
she lived alone? On the other hand, if she also used it at the shelter, it might
make sense to use a password.

I sat back in the chair and took a moment to settle my mind.
I had to get in it somehow. Closing my eyes, I took several deep breaths and
consciously relaxed my taut muscles. Emma rustled around downstairs, but despite
that, a peace descended over me. The sunlight cast a red glow against my closed
eyelids. Since I wasn’t sure how I felt about the whole God-thing, I didn’t
feel right about praying, but I tried to keep my mind open, receptive; to
what,
I didn’t know. Maybe to Sue’s God. Maybe to whatever Higher Power was working
in my sobriety. Maybe to Regina.

Her perfume scent drifted over me. I hadn’t smelled it when
I first entered.

Freaked. Me. Out.

I scrambled to my feet, sending the chair tumbling and made
it to the doorway in three ostrich-sized strides. Heart banging wildly, I
clutched the door frame to keep from falling head first over the landing and
down the stairs.

“Letty?”

I made a squeaky “eep” sound and almost wet myself until I
realized it was just Emma.

“Sorry. I dropped, uh, a chair. Everything’s fine.”

“A chair?” Her face appeared at the bottom of the stairs,
looking concerned.

“I backed into it. Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.” I
chuckled, then after hearing how fake it sounded, tried to turn it into a
cough.

“Well, let me know if you need anything.” She didn’t look
convinced, but was too well-mannered to push the point.

Taking advantage of her indecisiveness, I gave a little wave
and moved back into the office. “Great. Okay, um, I better get busy.”  

I shut the office door behind me and immediately regretted
it.